


Vice & Virtue - A Mortal Kombat 11 Fanfic

by Inkwoman



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games), Mortal Kombat - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkwoman/pseuds/Inkwoman
Summary: Ashrah, struggling to comprehend her nature, is contacted by Kronika, the Keeper of Time. In her quest to purify the realms in preparation for the New Era, Ashrah meets people who challenge her view of the world and of herself.
Kudos: 3





	1. Somewhere, Someone is Calling

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you for your interest in reading this! But, before I let you free, please follow me through these quick notes:
> 
> \- This fanfic has a "slightly" different approach to the Mortal Kombat universe than we usually see in the canon. If you are not a fan of gore, for example, you needn't worry much. There are some descriptions of violence but they are not frequent or too descriptive! I approached this story more with an "intimist" and minimalist tone. Also, I tried to give the spotlight to characters that are often left aside, so do not expect to see big figures like Liu Kang or Scorpion playing a big role.  
> \- English is not my mother language, so writing this fanfic was a good way that I found to practise my prose. If you come across any confusing sentence, I apologise! Please just ignore the mistakes or, if you cannot understand the meaning of the sentence, you can ask me.  
> \- This is my very first work of fan fiction. I did not want it to be too extensive and I know it's far from perfect, but I hope you can have some fun with the story! I had fun writing it - Ashrah is my favourite character, so having the opportunity to work with her was really nice! :D
> 
> For most of the characters in the story, my imagination accepted their MK 11 appearances. However, Ashrah and Stryker are not in the game, so I resorted to actors to be my role models! For those who are curious to know my references, here they are:  
> \- Stryker was easy: American actor Josh Brolin fits perfectly "my" Kurtis Stryker!  
> \- Ashrah was more complicated. I first googled for Indonesian actresses since this is one of the nations/cultures that inspired the character. I found a great match in Pevita Pearce; however, a part of me simply cannot see Ashrah as an "almond-eyed" character. This is probably because, when I started studying the character, I saw a lot of Hindu references in her (I even wrote a tweet or two talking about her Hindu roots). So I went to search for Indian actresses and found Ananya Panday. Buuuut, during my searches, I also found a Pakistan actress who fitted quite well with my idea of Ashrah: Ainy Jaffri. So yeah, my Ashrah is pretty much an amalgamation of those three actresses!
> 
> Lastly, although there are some changes to backstory, there are no Original Characters in this fanfic. **All characters belong to NetherRealm Studios,**
> 
> **All right, that's enough! Have a good read, everyone!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demon in search of her spiritual ascension, Ashrah's hunt is interrupted by Kronika, the mysterious and powerful self-proclaimed Keeper of Time.

The scream of the moribund demon echoed in the huntress' head, but that was not the source of her agony. As the blood gurgled through the slitted throat, dyeing her hands in the crimson mud, **Ashrah** watched the filthy creature struggle to regain its worthless life. Its suffering was joyful, its fear and its screeches an ode to liberation

She deviated her eyes, glancing at the sky. Brown clouds loomed above her. _I do not belong to this place,_ she said to herself. _My soul is pure._ **The Kriss** twirled in the creature’s forehead, slicing its skull and silencing its howls. _If only it was this easy,_ looking down at the stinky corpse, she felt disgusted and envious. The blood of the prey tainted her white robe, but she learned to cleanse it using her Light. All Netherrealm seemed to scream whenever it saw a glimpse of that pristine energy. She used to feel relief, satisfaction, even pleasure with the little torment she could retribute to the hell that was her prison, but now she only wished to get rid of the intruder in her head. Whispers. Whistles. Whirls. The blazing winds of Nether spun around her skin. The spider was close, always close; she sensed the coward thing! He said he would find her but he was dead. Someone killed him. But Netherrealm was his kingdom, he would come back. Come back for her.

"I know who I am, **Shinnok**!" she defied the Elder God of Death and his invisible threats. "You, infernal fiends who inhabit the shadows, shall never understand the Light! You cannot touch it without burning your wizened skin, you fear to stare into the Light. You fear you will realise how irreparably wretched your nature is!"

The Kriss hissed, glowing with a strong white aura among the darkness of hell. “Do you angst, too?” Ashrah searched for solace. The curly sword was an old but quiet friend. It kept secrets from the White Warrior, she knew, but patience was a virtue; she was virtuous. One soul at a time, the Kriss would reveal its mysteries.

She retrieved the Kriss, washing the blood in the shallow river nearby. Many were drowned there, including one of her sisters. If she squeezed her eyes, she could still see her, begging for help. No, they are treacherous as well. I can trust no one here. As she walked away from the corpse, the flying beasts dove with mouth open and empty stomach. The hungry creatures battled each other for pieces of limbs and organs and, although they roared at each other, Ashrah heard nothing.

Her eyes investigated the red desert before her. Flogged beasts bathed in the burbling lake of fire. On the top of a mountain, a soldier recently dragged into hell, fought the vultures that pecked his brittle flesh. Somewhere, someone was calling her name; a distant sound, its echo coming again and again.

“Who are you?” Ashrah muttered.

The answer came in the shape of a beam of energy that pierced through Ashrah’s brains. She fell on her knees, holding her head as if trying to crush it between her hands. Her cry erupted like a volcano, spreading across all Netherrealm, exorcizing the creatures from all around her.

Curled over her own body, Ashrah glimpsed at the burning sands of hell spiralling around her. The voice summoning her name was ever closer, but not vile as before. It was gentle, benevolent, kind-hearted. A passionate desire impelled the White Warrior to stand up and embrace the being calling to her, but the Kriss pinned her down. In fear? No, respect.

“Ashrah, Warrior of Purity,” the being was now standing right next to her. It was a woman whose voice was imbued in ancient power. The Light inside her coyed. The soil was acid, burning her knee. Her teeth gritted. She felt so small, so worthless. She could no longer endure...

She stood up, not by her own conscious movement, but impelled by the amiable woman.

Both the White Warrior and her weapon were dead silence. How could she speak words so fragile and insignificant in the presence of supremacy personified? The being – who Ashrah was no longer sure if could be simply defined as a “woman” – was floating. A long, blue, white and gold cloak reached her bare feet. Her head was bald, a piece of gold metal covering her scalp. Her eyes were of an entrancing blue, digging into the soul of every living being it fell upon. An ethereal blue surrounded her body, an unstoppable flux of crystalline energy.

And her smile... Ashrah could study a thousand years and she would never translate its meaning.

 **“I am Kronika, Keeper of Time,”** the being presented herself and, as she talked, clouds of sand danced around her. “The Sands of Time guide the destiny of the realms and every soul therein. I have carefully sculpted them to keep the realms in balance... but my work’s perfection has been irreversibly tainted by demoniac’s forces.”

The Kriss shone at the mention of the race. Despite its cold touch atop of her covered belly, Ashrah could tell the blade was anxious. _Can we trust this being?_ The wielder asked, again left wondering all by herself. But what option did she have? The world bent towards her, and she spoke like she knew the answer to all the mysteries of the universe.

Kronika orbited around Ashrah, light as a breath, constant as time itself. Her every word was accompanied by an echo, making them impossible to disregard. “I am displeased with how history unfolded but I can correct the equilibrium. I will restart time and create a New Era free from the shadows of selfish demons.”

Ashrah tried to step back, only to have that invisible force field ambushing her, coercing her into staring at Kronika, listen to her every gasp, read every minimal movement of her lips. The blade in Ashrah’s belt was heavier, speaking in its own language. Kronika smiled once more. _Can she understand what my Kriss says?_ Ashrah did not doubt that was one more of the being’s numerous capacities.

“We kill demons.” Surely, Kronika already knew who Ashrah was. Nothing could hide from her shimmering eyes. “This is the mission we were given. The mission we adopted.”

Kronika came alarmingly close to the warrior. The whole atmosphere changed into an ethereal palace, a globule of security and peace in the middle of the realm of the dead and devils. The Keeper of Time touched Ashrah’s shoulder. A motherly touch, her golden fingertips transmitted a sentiment the fighter had never experimented.

“All your struggle. All your suffering. In the New Era, you will be praised as a harbinger of hope, a paragon of balance, a purified soul.”

Ashrah released her breath. Heavens had finally noticed her. If she had any tears in her body, she would have unleashed them all. The road ahead was paved in silver. Paradise awaited.

The Kriss and the White Warrior joined forces with Kronika.


	2. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Kronika's service, Ashrah faces her first adversary - Dark Raiden.

Kronika's smile flourished again. A call of nature, it summoned a myriad of Sand particles that englobed the realm of the dead in a never-before-seen aurora. As might as the glow was, however, Ashrah doubted it would be enough to purify the condemned souls. A part of her hoped it would not be. Time and space were destroyed in tiny pieces and, in each shard, Ashrah saw a reflection of a thousand worlds, both different and equal to her own. In each of them, she sensed the influence of Darkness. She would have a lot of work but with Kronika's help, she trusted she would win.

“In the New Era, Good shall prevail,” Kronika’s voice echoed through the vortex. She could not see the Titan but her presence was comforting. “I need your help, Ashrah. I need you to defend the realm, defend me, while I work. Find the Mindbender and _pacify_ him.”

The almighty Kronika dropped her in a new reality. Although foreign, it was a beautiful place: the sky, closer than Ashrah ever saw it, was light-blue, decorated by fluffy clouds that foretold an incoming rain. She inhaled the air; her heart beat faster. For the first time in her life, the breeze did not burn her lungs. _How is the rain here, I wonder?_ She confabulated with the Kriss. _Not acid nor fetid, I suppose._ She was excited about the spectacle. But first, she had a mission to accomplish.

In the middle of the terrain, there was a multi-layered tower of which temple. Its biggest tower, in the shape of a hammer, almost touched the heavens. _What do you think we would find if we climbed it? Do you think the gods would receive us? No... We do not deserve an audience. Not yet. Soon. Very soon._ The faces of sacred animals and intelligent people were carved in statues of different sizes spread across the lower balcony. Inhabitants of past ages, she believed. Now, the place seemed abandoned, including by the deities that were once worshipped there. Below the White Warrior’s feet, there was only an unending fall.

All the beauty softened her heart but Ashrah’s trained eyes saw behind all that splendour and magnificence, and the warm of the Kriss in her hands confirmed her suspicion. Not all residents had left the temple.

“Identify yourself, trespasser.”

Ashrah turned to face the last living creature. As the Keeper of Time, he was not a mere mortal being, though his aura could not be compared to Kronika's. Dressed in black robes and armour, the entity presented itself as an ageing man with electric sparks surrounding his body and his eyes radiating red energy, which was the only aspect that she could distinguish since the shadow projected by the straw hat covered most of his face. On his shoulders, he wore a long, tainted cape and as a weapon, he proudly brandished an electric spear.

Howbeit, the most shocking detail rested in his chest. “That amulet,” Ashrah pointed, her finger glowing with Light. The **Amulet of Shinnok** recognised her; it called to her. _Daughter_ , it whispered. _Came back home, at_ _last! Now, do not be shy. Let the Darkness embrace you._ “It is an unholy symbol, a mark of wickedness and degeneration. I do not know how you came into its possession, but I will make sure to cleanse your soul from its...”

The **Dark Warrior** attacked as fast and unstoppable as a lightning bolt, silencing Ashrah’s protest. She was thrown across the temple, colliding against the iron head of a lion. Her spine ached, still intact for a miracle. The powerful entity had no intentions of allowing the White Warrior to accomplish her sacred task. He charged again in a speed impossible for the eyes to follow.

Leaving her senses to guide her actions, Ashrah dodge in the last second. The Dark Warrior collapsed against the statue, destroying it. The blow, however, did nothing but enrage him further, and before the opponent could notice, he was already dashing in her direction. Ashrah anointed herself in Light.

White and Dark crashed, exchanging punches and kicks in the air. She felt every strike but her opponent discovered that she was not a feeble creature. He groaned when the Kriss sliced his elbow, cursed when a dagger of Light penetrated his belly. The impact of the attacks launched each warrior to an opposite side of the temple. Blood flowed from the Dark Warrior's nose and mouth. Ashrah sutured two wounds with the Light. He was a worthy enemy, a grandeur demon. When she defeated him, perhaps her quest would end. Perhaps she would see what lived beyond the clouds.

Far from being defeated or discouraged, the Dark Warrior got up again. He did not proceed to a new round. The rain had started and only now Ashrah noticed it. The drops were cold, refreshing, healing. She wanted to lie down and let the rain caress her face but the fight was not over. The Dark Warrior followed a stain of blood that slid down his nose, swimming across his chest, boiling when it touched the amulet.

Ashrah awaited for her next chance. It would happen soon. The Kriss had proved the taste of that demon’s blood, and it was eager for more.

“Who sent you? They will pay with their lives!”

 _He will use the amulet!_ she noticed. She grasped the Kriss’ pommel and lunged towards the Dark Warrior. But she committed a fatal mistake. That was not Netherrealm. The demoniac forces at play were outlandish and extraordinary. Ashrah was grabbed out of thin air by an electric whip. The construct choked her and before she could devise a counter-attack, the malicious amulet was aimed at her and its power perforated her soul.

All the fear she thought she had left in Netherrealm, came back to haunt her. She saw Quan Chi whipping her when she failed a task, vampiric harpies licking the blood from her back; the freezing nights when her sisters slept together but cast her aside; Shinnok's lurking in every curtain of shadow, devouring those who strayed off the path. Hell wrapped itself around her heart. She was carried away by the storm, falling into the darkness of the abyss. The raindrops slithered across her face, substituting the tears she could not cry. Drowning in her own death, Ashrah desperately tried to hold onto anything, finding only the disdainful void.


	3. Reinforcement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashrah falls on Earthrealm, meeting with a peculiar inhabitant of this world: Kurtis Stryker.

_The amulet,_ she remembered. _Shinnok’s amulet. I swore he would never hurt me again. I vowed to purify the world from his darkness..._

Her honourable promise sounded like a distant dream. The mere recollection of the amulet or of its owner frightened her whole. Shinnok had spoken to her; his voice daunted her very essence, proving he was as alive as he had always been. How many times had she prayed to his sacred image, thanked him for his blessing and begged his forgiveness for her mistakes? Death cannot be killed. _Let the Darkness embrace you..._

Her body was involved by Light. The sun shone in her mind; the obscurity retreated in agony, revealing to her the most beautiful, enchanting forest she had ever dared to imagine. The soil breathed, giving birth to strong and fruitful trees. The treetops rustled in a gentle breeze; some of the leaves detached from its mother; one of them was Ashrah, floating with the wind, unburdened. A waterfall of sunlight washed her heart, and when she opened her eyes, she was back at dry land.

At first, it was hard to identify _where_ was that land. The architecture, a conglomerate of tall buildings made of glass or steel and small houses of brick certainly did not belong to the Netherrealm. There were scattered, meagre trees surrounding the buildings, none of them as gorgeous as the ones that bloomed in the paradise of her mind. The people, all dressed in skin alike her own, clearly was not dead or corrupted by evil forces. They were not warriors, however. They screamed and fled in panic as the creatures attacked from air and ground with claws, tongues, tails and perverse magic.

It was an invasion. She had witnessed one before: servants of death and chaos sought to conquer and destroy pacific villages, clans, or even entire worlds. _Forces of Darkness,_ Ashrah talked to her sword. _Trying to fordo Kronika’s balance._ Whoever sent them there, or wherever was that place, she and her Kriss were ready to take them back to their perverted realms.

“Get out!” Someone bumped into her, purposely knocking her down. Ashrah was ready to counter-attack when she saw the man who pushed her engaging in visceral combat with one of the demons, using a sort of metal stick to break its jaw and a projectile-based, elongated weapon to finish it, opening a hole in its head. “Sister, you cannot stay here. I'm afraid hell is paying us a visit."

He was an admirable figure. The robust chest and arms, the strong jaw and neck, and the indifference to all the blood covering his clothes portrayed him as a barbarian warrior. He exposed a short and thin fur on the cheeks, and a shaved head partially hidden by a blue hat, the same colour of his armour.

“I am not your sister, **Earthrealmer**.” _All my family ties were severed_ , she added to herself. If her time with Quan Chi and the Brotherhood of Shadows served any purpose, it was to teach the basic of languages from different realms. She cleaned the dirt from her white robes, spinning the Kriss from one hand to another, prepared to battle...

“Wow, wow! Who are you? Some kind of reinforcement? Did Raiden send you?” His voice was deep as the most profound cave in Netherrealm. He showed no fear of the beasts tearing his home apart.

“Kronika sent me, Earthrealmer.”

“Kronika? Is she some of the other gods?”

“My mission is holy, a god would belike see it. But Kronika is more: stronger, wiser. Kronika is a Titan.”

A harpy flew straight into the distracted duo. Ashrah’s enhanced senses allowed her to spin on her wheels, grab the demon by the neck and slice its throat in less than two seconds. The Earthrealmer watched her with a curious look. He was a peculiar specimen of his race. Quan Chi always referred to Earthrealmers as pathetic and weak.

“If your mission is to kill those bastards, you’re more than welcome to stay. Name’s **Kurtis Stryker**.”

For some reason, he stretched his hand towards the White Warrior. She studied his palm, finding nothing extraordinary in the chaffed white fingers. Concluding that the gesture was foolish but unharming, she continued her journey.

Dozens of knights dressed and equipped like Kurtis Stryker confronted the creatures throughout that strange land of concrete. Unfortunately, they lacked the bravery and the dexterity of the man she judged their general. For each demon they killed, three of them were smashed or eaten in front of the companions. Their dismay stung her nose, and if she could smell it, the demons could as well. It would be a feast. Luck for them, her mission was in conformity with their survival.

A demon was too entertained terrifying his prey: fear was a delicious toxin for the beasts. Ashrah seized the opportunity to break its neck. Using the corpse as an impulse, the Kriss lacerated the belly of a demon flying low. Drawing the fiends' attention, they gathered around her, eager to taste her flesh and blood. Three other creatures fell in the next five seconds, two of them losing arms and legs before finally being put out of their misery; the third was obliterated by a ray of Light. When the animals saw her power, they howled from afar, their mad courage abandoning them.

“For Christ sake, keep your guns away from this woman!” She heard Kurtis Stryker’s voice nearby.

Watching the White Warrior razing the devilish hordes with so much skill and easiness, the Earthrealmers regained their morale, moving forth in her aid. While the Kriss bathed the streets in fuming blood, the locals shot their projectiles from behind her, taking down any aerial demon and dispersing groups of small creatures that then fled before the holy blade could pacify their souls.

The bigger monsters, seeing the tides turning, tried to save their rotten soul. Not all of them had the same luck as their smaller allies. Trapped by Ashrah’s blade and the Light, they wauled as they unholy spirits were cleansed. “Come to the Light, foul creatures!” the White Warrior shouted, scorching dozens of imps in a single energy blast.

The Kriss burnt Ashrah’s hand, obliging the wielder to throw it to the ground. “What is happening with you?” she inspected her trusted friend. It glowed in a strange, pallid colour. “You receive their sprite, do you not? You are pacifying their evil existence, enlightening the world. I know their souls are worthless if compared to the grand demons we seek, but they will create a bridge for our real targets."

The Kriss quenched. Smiling satisfied, Ashrah sheathed the sword.

Behind her, footsteps. “Kurtis Stryker,” she greeted. The officer was confused by the lack of blood in her pristine robe. “Your realm suffers from a vile and cruel assault, but I was sent to stop this army of darkness.”

The Earthrealmer analysed her from head to toe. “They’re thankful for your help.” Behind them, the blue knights waved and grinned. Hesitant, she imitated their gesture. _They are friendly souls_ , she noticed. _Despite all the blood they shed, they still smile._

“Your voice sounds... grave, Kurtis Stryker.”

“You may call it occupational hazard. Are you sure you don’t know Raiden? Controls lightning, has a funny hat and a spear...”

“ **Raiden!** ” Ashrah shouted against her free will. The Kriss hissed in agreement. _That is the name of the demon. The Mindbender! The one who holds..._ she swallowed dry. “I nearly reached his soul. But he possesses a powerful instrument of Dark.”

“This doesn’t make sense, ma’am,” Kurtis Stryker’s visage became a tempest of feelings and thoughts. He reached for a piece of equipment in his pocket and talked through it. “Blake, take ’em home. I got somethin’ to solve here.”

Ashrah studied the instrument in his hands. It seemed like a rustic way of mental communication. “Are you familiar with magic, Kurtis Stryker?”

“This is called _technology_ , ma’am,” he returned the equipment to his belt, pointing a direction. “Please, follow me.”

 _He fought the demons with bravery,_ Ashrah thought with herself, meditating how much she could trust the Earthrealm knight. Nothing in his words or actions denounced evil intentions. She followed him to an exquisite kind of carriage made of metal. He opened one of its doors, inviting her in.

“Are you trying to show me something, Kurtis Stryker?”

“We’ll talk on the way,” he half-explained, entering through a second door in the opposite side. “And please call me just Stryker.” Carefully, Ashrah joined him inside the vehicle. Inside, they both fell to silence. The White Warrior could almost hear the deafening stream of thoughts circulating in the Earthrealmer’s brain. “Back there, you said you fought Raiden? And he was using... dark magic?”

“If that is the same Raiden you are asking me about, my answer is yes, Kurt... Stryker.”

“And you survived...”

There was a hint of an inquiry in there. Though the question was not fully formed, it was enough to insult her pride. “Wherefore so impressed?”

“He’s a god. **_The_ God of Thunder**.”

Ashrah nodded. _He must have been consumed by Shinnok’s evilness. A sprite held in chains by forces beyond his control or understanding,_ she conferred with the Kriss.

“Vampires, wraiths, gods... My mission is sacred, Stryker. Nothing can stay in my path. I am Ashrah, and I use the Light to fulfil my mission.”

“I admire your faith, _Ashrah_ ,” Stryker complimented, powering on the carriage. “But I don’t share it.”

"Where are we going?" she asked, holding the metal door to maintain her balance. Whatever energy fuelled the vehicle, it kicked more than any horse.

"Talk to a friend. I've got a feeling he will like you."

"Will _I_ like him?"

Stryker chuckled. "That's a more delicate matter. Don't worry, we should be there in a few hours."


	4. Non-Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashrah gets to know more of Earthrealm's culture in her journey to meet Stryker's friend: a shaman known as Nightwolf.

Earthrealm was a gorgeous place if one was successful in ignoring all the havoc caused by wicked troops of Nether and Chaos. Whole _streets_ , houses, _stores_ and _cars_ (a long nomenclature introduced to the visitor by Kurtis Stryker, the _police officer)_ were in ruins, while others were still untouched, rejoicing from a brief and unstable peace. Stryker explained to her different architectures and the history linked to important sites. He said, in a slightly boastful tone, that _New_ _York_ , the place where she landed, was one of the most famous cities in the whole world, always packed with tourists and locals that rejoiced in spectacular theatre plays, live music shows and unlimited shopping routines. His speech was finalised with a gloom smile.

Ashrah found herself fascinated by all those lessons. There were no whips to punish her mistakes, nor blood to be shed as an evaluation test, only a warming feeling of accomplishment as the world revealed itself before her eyes. Her curiosity inflated; she was always encountering some little detail on the road that sparked more questions. She was not the only inquiring personality on the car, though. Stryker asked about her powers, her weapons, her clothes, her past and her future, and to reward his patience and dedication, she answered to the best of her capabilities (which not always formed a satisfying answer; there are things he would not comprehend).

After they both fired questions as fast as Stryker's gun fired bullets, their ammunition ran out and a welcomed silence assented on the vehicle. A neon placard, glowing brighter than the setting sun, indicated a path. The driver followed the arrow sign, deviating from the road. He parked the vehicle in a large place full of other cars in an abundance of sizes and colours. A store – Ashrah thought it was a store – of pellucid windows showed dozens of people gathered inside.

“I’m gonna buy a beer,” Stryker announced. “Want something?”

Ashrah did not understand him, so she remained silent. The officer sighed and then got out of the car. Her dictionary did not include “beer” but, whatever it was, she could not stay in the vehicle alone; it still inspired mistrust. She got out and followed the man who, with a giggle, watched her trying to keep up with his steps.

A hot and greasy breath flayed her face when they entered the shop. People speaking with all the fibre of their lungs, the clatter of dishes, sounds she never heard before; the cacophony disoriented her; she clasped Stryker’s arm to not lose herself.

“Why are they so loud?” she yelled.

“If they don’t shout, how do you suppose God will hear them?” Stryker answered, and even if the explanation was reasonable, Ashrah sensed a hint of mockery in his tone.

He studied a panel on the counter. Ashrah understood the spoken language but she could not read, no matter how much she squinched her eyes to try and discern the small letters.

“Do you want somethin'?” Stryker renewed his offer. “I can pay, not a problem.”

An icy breeze caught her attention. She looked around until she found its source: an odd, colourful ball, sustained by a brownish cone. The woman who had it slipped her tongue on the frozen surface.

“You want one?” the officer asked.

“Is it cold?” Ashrah asked as she watched the woman bite a piece off the ball.

“Well, yes. Quite cold.”

“Cold would be good.”

Stryker nodded. A minute later he gave her an elegant horn-shaped receptacle that bore three balls: the one on the top was red, in the middle a black one, and below those two, a beige. She touched the thing with the tip of her finger. It was cold, indeed. Remembering how the woman had done it, Ashrah brought the cone closer to her face and lightly touched it with her tongue. The coldness instantly soaked her organs. She shivered. She repeated the gesture. It was like being encapsulated in a bubble of glacial energy, shielding her from the hotness and the loudness of the outside world. The Netherrealm flames seemed so very distant.

“What is its name?” Ashrah asked as they headed back to the car.

“What?” She pointed at the food. “It’s... **ice cream**. You never ate it?”

“No.”

“Don’t you have ice cream where you live?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Stryker said only, though her mind was fired up with a new series of questions he dared not ask... yet. He drank a long sip of the bottle he had bought. The liquid exhaled an awful smell.

The car got moving and once more they travelled by the endless road. Ashrah noticed the ice cream was melting. Her protective sphere was dissolving.

“You said Kronika sent you,” Stryker restarted. “ _Who_ or _what_ is Kronika?”

“She is the Keeper of Time,” Ashrah explained what she could. “She will restore the balance within the Realms by eliminating the demons who corrupted it. Raiden is the reason she sent me here. _The Mindbender_ , she called him.”

“You must understand, Raiden is not an enemy. Or at least he _wasn’t_ ,” Stryker corrected himself after receiving a menacing stare from his companion. “What Kronika did to earn your trust?”

Ashrah did not answer. She had her reasons; nothing that an Earthrealmer born and raised in a privileged place would understand.

“Those creatures you saw back there?” he continued. “I already faced them once. _Two decades_ ago. So, when you say your Kronika is a Keeper of Time, I say she either sucks at her job or she’s doing some bad things on purpose. And this prompts more bad possibilities. I’m on a tight spot here, you see it?”

Ashrah used one of the technologies Stryker showed her, lowering the window of the car. She undressed her large hat, allowing her tied black hair to prove the breeze. A strand of hair freed itself from the hair clip.

“They infest everywhere, devastate all they touch," she said. "Their sprite is perverted by nature, and I pray you never witness a holy ghost captured by darkness. You will cry a river, and they will laugh. They will let you live just so they can harvest your precious sentiments. Because they have nothing. Nothing. That is the non-life of a demon.”

She lost herself in the running landscape. Earthrealm and Netherrealm meshed themselves in her sight. In the distance, she spotted demons doing their cruel work, although she could not say if it was the reality or a memory.

A group of flying creatures hovered above the vehicle. They were not ugly and venomous as the harpies of Netherrealm. They sang a sweet melody, the kind that mermaids sing to hypnotise their preys. Could there be such an evil intent in those feathery animals? They barely paid attention to the car and disappeared after a glorious moment. Not evil; they were an omen to the splendour that blossomed in front of Ashrah’s transfixed eyes. Stryker drove through a village of trees carrying green leaves and red, rounded fruits. The crowns were as big as Oni Warlords, the trunks as sturdy as Centaurs' horns. _Am I imagining this?_ She asked the Kriss, who was quieter than ever.

“What is this place?”

“Somewhere we can find answers, I hope.”

Ashrah turned her attention to the officer. Stryker’s eyes were fully concentrated on the path ahead, the brim of his hat blocking his side vision. A man ignoring all the magnificence around him, always looking for “answers”. _Maybe he is lost too?_ She cogitated.

“You okay?”

Ashrah deviated her look when she realized Stryker was talking to her. He felt her inquisitive eyes on him, of course. _I cannot let this place fool me,_ she leashed herself. _Paradise is within reach, but I am not there yet._

A distant sound began. Ashrah searched for the source, locating one of Stryker’s so-called technologies depicting a light-blue sky, flying beasts circling around the air, dancing in unison. A... person, was flying too, amongst the small creatures. The White Warrior came closer to the screen, touching it as if trying to reach that joyful scenario.

“It’s a song called **_Learning to Fly_** ,” Stryker explained with a smile. “Do you know _music?_ _"_

“Not this kind of music...” The man kept singing, joined by kind and colourful animals. The Netherrealm songs were harsh, brazen, morose; the symphonies were mostly composed of drums, flutes, clapping hands and stomping feet, and they had a clear objective: worship Shinnok and its children. Ashrah could not say she did not find joy in such songs; many times she danced and killed in their rhythm. Her favourites, however, were those pieces of music composed by amiable souls who, trapped in the wrong afterlife, would brighten up hell with their gift. Somehow, they would distillate lava, darkness and blood into a song that denied all those elements and brought forth a feeling of hope, compassion and delight.

“He’s not really there in the sky, you know? Humans usually don’t know how to fly, no matter how hard they try.”

“ _Condition grounded but determined to try,_ ” she repeated the lyrics, the rhymes hopping in her tongue.

“Yes,” Stryker sighed. “Never give up.”

As the song continued, the car turned right, taking a secluded path. The leaves united, darkening the trail. Ashrah closed the window, grabbing the Kriss and leaving the blade on her lap.

“Don’t need to be afraid..”

“Do not trust only your eyes, Stryker. I have witnessed many fools being captured by the shadows. They look like puppies but hide many menaces," she replied, tightening her fingers around the Kriss’ pommel.

Seeing that discussing would do no good, Stryker conformed to keep driving in silence. Not even the choral in the radio convinced the warrior to relax, and for the next hour, she would maintain her vigilant eye.

Approaching their destination, the shape of the environment began to change. Human action could still be seen sharing space with nature, but it was a _different_ kind of human interference. It reminded her of the tribal clans of Netherrealm. The pathway had been sculpted for someone to follow, and perhaps this same someone was now following them with incessant and invisible eyes.

The grass was decorated with figures of animals: eagles, bears and, guarding them all, wolves. Totems hanged from the trees' branches; in one of them, she saw the shape of sharp teeth. The forest reeked of an ethereal presence. Restless souls roamed a realm that no longer belonged to them. Ashrah tasted ire, elation, melancholy...

“Something moved!”

“Yes, I know,” Stryker calmly responded. “Try not to dwell on it. I almost think he scares first-time visitors on purpose.”

“That sounds sadistic.”

“I prefer to see it as an inoffensive joke.”

Ashrah was about to argue there was nothing _inoffensive_ in toying with spirits when the vehicle stopped. Stryker opened the door and left. “Let’s go?”

Ashrah was not confident about that plan, but the Kriss was ready if the situation required the use of force. She placed the hat in her head and tied its laces around her jaw.

“Is your acquaintance a spirit?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Two small Earthrealmers appeared amidst the trees. _Children..._ Ashrah identified. Upon recognizing Kurtis Stryker, they abandoned their shyness and approached the officer with a loud celebration, shouting in a language neither her nor the officer understood. The girl, however, did not forget about the second visitant and perused Ashrah with her little eyes during the whole walk.

Two more Earthrealmers awaited at a clearing, the vestiges of a bonfire sitting between the elders.

“Interrupting somethin’?” Stryker opened his arms.

“Your time is always the right time, Kurtis,” the grown man replied, embracing the officer. Ashrah frowned upon the strange gesture that seemed dangerous to her. Stryker bowed to the woman, and she answered in that same incomprehensible language; however, she discerned docility in her voice.

Both mother and daughter spied the unknown newcomer. The former whispered something to her spouse, who only then appeared to notice the White Warrior. He gesticulated and talked in their tongue. The mother grabbed her children and disappeared into the forest. Her inner sight showed her that more people lived in close proximity. So far, she could not distinguish any wicked intention from that clan.

“Nightwolf, this is Ashrah,” Stryker introduced. “Ashrah, **Nightwolf**.”

He was an important figure, she perceived in his aura. His skin was brown, and Ashrah was shocked by how much of it was shown. He wore a waistcoat that let free his chest and his arms, heavy boots up to his ankle and light trousers. All his garment was handmade using plants and deceased animals, exhibiting the dark colours of nature. The most notable piece, however, was in his head – a cloak with the shape of a wolf, making it seem as if the man’s head were inside the animal’s mouth. The turmoil and apprehension she felt in the forest originated from him.

“Why do you keep the dead so close to you?”

Even beneath the hat, Ashrah could see Stryker’s eyebrows raising in protest of such direct and intrusive question. Nightwolf, on the other hand, was not offended; he inhaled the air of the forest with pride. “They are guiders,” he explained, smiling to invisible companions. “And they are a reminder.”

Ashrah scrutinized the encampment, unsure of who to believe – the wolfman or the Kriss rustling in her belt. The blade was uncomfortable, and when it speaks so loudly, it usually means the hunt is nigh.

Although Nightwolf was undoubtedly sensitive to the ethereal world living above his common reality, he did not express any alteration in his behaviour, no concern or horror. He crouched in front of the extinguished bonfire, picking up a wood pot and serving three cups with the hot liquid inside.

“Something tells me you had a stressing day,” Nightwolf said while distributing two of the cups to Stryker and Ashrah. She shook the utensil, studying the greenish liquid waving from one side to another.

“It’s called tea,” Stryker explained, drinking a sip from his own _tea_. “It helps to relax.”

“To relax body and soul,” Nightwolf added, comfortably sitting on the ground, his back supported by a tree. “Unfortunately, as appealing as the idea sound, I do not think you came here only to prove the receipt of my ancestors."

The cup warmed her hands, but Ashrah did not drink from it. “Do you know Kronika, Wolf?”

“I am afraid I am not familiar with the name. But we can meet.”

The White Warrior nodded in agreement. Then, she began narrating her story – that she was a fighter from another realm with a sacred mission to wipe out the evil of the demons polluting the virtuosity of life; how she was approached by the Time Keeper known as Kronika and sent to Earthrealm to purify Raiden’s soul and cleanse this dimension from his dark influence, caused by the amulet of the God of Death and Darkness, Shinnok, which he wielded as a weapon and proof of his corruption; told him how she aided Kurtis Stryker and his brave soldiers and how he bought her a "surprisingly pleasing ice cream" as a token of his gratitude.

She told him everything. Everything she dared to say. Nightwolf was a brilliant listener. He not once _physically_ glanced at her, but Ashrah sensed all her words being drained by his consciousness.

By the time she was done, she realized she had drunk all the tea without even regarding its flavour. She felt... good. The liquid heated her inner self, not like the Netherrealm flames – she should not think of hell in that place – but a serene kind of fire. A lullaby belled in her mind.

“Indeed, time is not as steady as it used to be,” Nightwolf said. Stryker inquired him with his eyes but nothing else came out of his mouth; Ashrah took off her hat, laid it above the land and snuggled her head on the soft fabric.

“I will find a solution. Everyone will be pacified,” Ashrah mumbled, more to herself. Her eyes were rapidly closing against her will. There was so much to think about, so much to do, but she was so tired, her body refusing to move. _When was the last time we slept?_ She asked the Kriss, grasping the blade’s pommel.

The cosy shadows nestled her.


	5. Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Ashrah sleeps, Nightwolf reveals a truth about her that Stryker finds hard to believe. The Matoka tribe is visited by an out-of-season Spring.

“How we even got to this?” Kurtis Stryker breathed out after half an hour of absolute silence. His worries were wind. Nightwolf was absorbed in thoughts and did not feel the impatient breeze calling for an explanation. _He is still in conference,_ the officer calmed down his nerves. _He will return with good answers, he always does_. _  
_

The woman had completely blacked out. Twice he had checked her breathing. Her white clothes were tainted by the soil, but for the first time since Kurtis met her, she did not look worried. Quite the opposite: a cloud of serenity involved the restless warrior.

Without the large hat covering her face and unblocked by her inhibition, Stryker took a better look at her. She was not pretty. Not like any prettiness that could be found in Earthrealm or measured by its standards. She was an exotic landscape that compelled the officer to examine from all possible and legal perspectives. Her skin was of a strange tone, a greenish tinge mixed with grey; the leaden mixture reminded him of ash. The black-pitch hair tied in a long ponytail covered her ears and some of her arched eyebrows; rebel strands fell on her slender cheeks like scars. Her plump lips were slightly open, and once in a while, he could see night's cold vapour exhaling through her mouth. Her features were stern despite the nun-like docility of her voice and eyes - rounded, heavy eyes, with dark and thick eyelashes that gave her eyelids an almond-esque trait -, which would excuse someone for mistaking her for a lost child, even if, in human scale, she would be thirty, thirty-five years old.

The charm of his appreciative analysis was constantly sliced by the presence of the untanned sword, held close to the warrior's chest. Like a brat who, after a day of mischievous adventures, lie in bed with her guardian doll. The blade was an extension of her long, boney fingers, one protecting the other from the evils she claimed to pursue.

“What is she?” Stryker finally found the courage to ask. “I know you sensed something. I did too and I’m not even a shaman!”

“She is not lying, if that is what you are afraid of,” Nightwolf decided to satiate his friend’s anxiety for knowledge. “At least not for you.” He then paused again, drinking the last of his unblessed tea, making sure Stryker absorbed his explanation until that point. “She is a demon, Kurtis. A demon from the Netherrealm.”

His heart missed a beat. Stryker wetted his lips, unable to find words that made sense. He glanced again at the sleeping figure. A demon? Impossible. She was _different_ , that much he could see with his naked, human eyes. But she was a valiant warrior, a conflicted but benevolent woman, a person trying to do her best for protecting the world she deemed...

“Do not judge appearances, Kurtis,” Nightwolf interrupted the officer’s infinite stream of impulsive thoughts. “And, please, do not judge her nature either. There is a dual existence struggling inside her soul, and I am frank when I say I still have not all the pieces of the puzzle."

“What she wants?” Stryker frowned in an attempt to see through the white robe of chastity. No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes, he could not distinguish the demoniac being concealing in there.

“Her mission _is_ sacred,” Nightwolf insisted. “But what mission is that? And, perhaps more importantly, how she fits in the grand scheme of things, is a problem I have yet to meditate about. Please, do not harm my land."

Stryker realised he was smashing portions of soil in his punch. He apologised, returning the earth to its proper place.

“So you believe her? You believe Raiden is corrupted?”

A dome of leaves sheltered them. The officer wondered if it was not later than he thought. He must have lost track of time, and his cell phone was left in the car. Nightwolf put his empty cup aside. “There are mysterious forces at play, Kurtis. I shall not venture to make assumptions at the present moment.”

Stryker nodded. Sometimes, it was hard to accept that, despite all the magic and esoterism, Nightwolf was just a man. Harder yet was to see his own impotence, sitting between a shaman gifted with an expansive consciousness, and a demon dressed as an Earthrealmer nun. Who was _Kurtis Stryker_ in the grand scheme of things? His life should be to simply hunt down criminals and lock them behind bars. Maybe engage in a gunfight every now and then.

He giggled with the idea. How many years had passed since he last dreamed about the mundane? If he had to be honest with himself, he wouldn’t change that life for an easier one.

Inspired by Ashrah’s peacefulness, he took off his cap and covered his face. A nap would be damn welcomed...

... If he, in fact, achieved a few moments of sleep, he could not tell. What Kurtis Stryker knew is that suddenly the earth was trembling, the winds were harassing the woodland and the clouds casting a waterfall upon them. He got up with his gun ready, but Nightwolf’s arm stopped him from moving. Stryker followed his sight, losing his breath over the view.

 _A goddess?_ Was his first thought. When people described divine visions, that was always what he imagined: a fluctuating, shimmering figure. She flared with the sunlight, which should not be awakened at that hour. The entity’s hair was blue like the most crystalline water in the world, and her clothes, a mix of light armour and fabric, were made of plants, flowers and rocks. Slowly, the being descended from its pedestal, its crystal sandals sprouting flowers wherever she stepped.

She did not even bother to notice Stryker and Nightwolf. Her attention was fully on Ashrah, standing directly in front of her... and she also sparkled.

The girl was impressed, Stryker quickly noticed. The birds were singing around the entity, the flowers bowing to her personage. Nightwolf’s pets kept their distance, but even in the beasts’ eyes, the officer spotted admiration. They did not fear the entity; her presence engulfed them in a cordial atmosphere.

“I knew I would find you here,” the being spoke. Her voice was giant, although calm and kind. Her greenish face carried an enchanting smile. That unnatural skin tone curiously resembled Ashrah’s. “I sensed the Light of your heart from afar, and all I needed to do was follow the trail.” She touched Ashrah’s chest with hands of stone. The girl tried to reach for the being’s hands, but in its place, she discovered a superb rose.

In the entity’s back rose a pair of wings shaped like lianas. “Come with me, child, the future awaits to meet your glory.”

Free from the initial hypnotic effect, Ashrah turned to Stryker, a feeble spectator to that celestial theatre. Only then, the goddess noticed them. Noticed _him_. Stryker had absolutely no idea what to do, say or think, but he glanced at Nightwolf and caught he almost imperceptibly shaking of his head.

Mesmerized by her magnetic aura, Ashrah turned back to the godly figure; the girl’s and the being’s light merged, both of them disappearing in an explosion of luminosity.

Consumed by the mighty blast, Kurtis Stryker felt all his senses failing, one by one. His eyes were almost blinded, his ears heard nothing but a buzz, his hands couldn’t touch anything tangible. When part of his sensorial faculties returned, Stryker was still out of words. Nightwolf stood by his side, steady like a rock, his eyes fixed on the spot where the two women vanished. The flowers created by the entity’s footsteps were still there, beautiful as a new-born Spring.

“Cetrion,” Nightwolf suddenly announced. The name was totally strange to Stryker, but it carried enough power that he linked the identity to the heavenly being. “Goddess of Virtue.”

“Any god with an ego big enough to call themselves ‘virtuous’ should not be trusted.” As valid as the observation was, the officer realized that Nightwolf was not speaking to him.

“The council of the Elders no longer exists,” the shaman continued, immersed in astral conversations. “A child?” the word echoed throughout the trees, scaring the birds and the wolf who guarded the camp. “The situation has gone way too far out of control. If Kronika broke time, I might exploit gaps.”

“What’s your plan?”

With that, Nightwolf turned his attention to his disoriented friend. “To learn from history.”


	6. The Path to Paradise Begins in Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cetrion teaches Ashrah to expand and control her Light powers. Kronika gives the huntress a new target.

As farther she got from Netherrealm, the more her oniric soil was irrigated by conceptions of Paradise. The landscape changed every time. Once, there was a golden pyramid embraced by large trees and blessed by everlasting sunlight. Another time, she saw a palace surrounded by a clean, invigorating sea inhabited by wonderful and peaceful creatures. Sometimes, her Paradise was nothing but an infinite of blue, green and white, an open world where she could lay down and watch animals and children playing. No matter how she saw it, Paradise was always shiny, beautiful, and pure.

But Ashrah was a fool. A fool to think her limited imagination could reach divine heights and give her a glimpse of the true Light. Even now, as the skies opened for her, she expected to be seeing an illusion, a veil weaved to protect her mortal soul from burning.

It was not a golden pyramid, or an invigorating sea, or the infinite garden. **Paradise** was all of those things and more. Creatures she never heard of hopped from twig to twig, others swam in bottomless rivers, and still many others lived between the sky and the ocean. An animal rubbed in her feet, but she did not feel scared. A fountain in the shape of an angel offered her water. She drank from the statue's hands and then she understood why that liquid was considered the "essence of life". The lava boiling in her veins was quenched by the beatific tidal wave.

“Would you like to live in a place like this?”

Ashrah blushed when Cetrion approached, smiling the most enchanting smile one could have. Her wings, shimmering with the colours of the rainbow, wafted around Ashrah. She irradiated warm energy, an elan that asked her to let herself go.

“I cannot...” Ashrah said in painful honesty. “Not yet. There is still... a task. Before I can live in the light I must extinguish the dark.”

She deviated her look. The glorious peace seduced her. Cetrion's benevolent face made it seem like everything was well in the universe.

The world began to glow. Cetrion was levitating in front of her, Light emanating from her hands of stone. Ashrah was becharmed by the divinity demonstration. It took her a while to notice that her arms were also candescent.

Next, the air evaporated from her lungs. The soil disappeared from below her feet, and Ashrah found herself uplifted by the Light itself. Cetrion’s whole being was engulfed by that white energy, and when she touched Ashrah’s chest, her body also enlightened.

“I... cannot... control...”

“Quiet, child. Listen only to your heart,” the goddess encouraged, taking Ashrah’s hand on her own. Paradise had become an unbounded world of Light. Its true and magnificent form.

Ashrah burned, but not in pain. The flames of hell were far from her being. When Cetrion distanced herself, Ashrah realized she was actually controlling that aura surrounding and blessing her. Slowly, she began to move in the empty space, free like an angel, her heart weightless. _My heart..._ she closed her eyes, listening to each beat like they were the first she ever heard.

“Follow me,” Cetrion invited, waiting for no answer before moving away.

She inhaled and exhaled, though she was unsure if the air existed in that place. _What is my heart saying? Fear not. I shall not judge you. Tell me._ Ashrah commanded the Light to propel herself in the direction of the goddess. It was not hard. Sure, she was not completely new to that divine power, but she had never come close to anything of that magnitude. That kind of power should only be handed to gods. Nevertheless, control arose quickly, just like she learned natural movements like walking or talking or killing. _No, not killing. This is no place for death and blood._ Despite the warning, her mind attempted to reforge scenes of slaughter and agony... she could not remember her preys. Any of them.

When Ashrah was about to reach Cetrion, the goddess disappeared. The White Warrior searched everywhere, despair starting to possess her until she finally found her guider. And she had a... smirk, on her face. Ashrah restarted to move, but again when she was close enough, Cetrion disappeared.

“Do not attempt to subdue your power. Let it open its wings and sail free.”

She tried once more, and again Cetrion pulled her trick. This time, however, Ashrah understood. The goddess wasn’t disappearing, she was running in incredibly fast velocity. Her eyes, accustoming to the Light, discovered a trace of the goddess trajectory and followed it.

Ashrah left the flow to conduct her, keeping enough control only to make sure she stayed on the correct course. Cetrion tried to baffle her adversary by creating branches in her trail, but the truth unmasked itself to the apprentice's wit eyes, allowing her to continue in the right direction.

 _If I continue like this, I will never catch her_ , a thought popped up in her mind. Instinctively, Ashrah’s mind analysed her master’s trail. By calculating the trajectory, she found a route that Cetrion seemed to be repeating. Instead of following the goddess, Ashrah turned around, turned left, then up and right, and then...

The two beings collided, falling back to the Paradise created by Cetrion. Before they collided against the ground, a mattress of Light cushion their impact. Ashrah wanted to apologise but, inexplicable, they both started to laugh while nearby animals watched in confusion.

“You learn fast, child,” Cetrion commended.

The Light had been reduced to mild sparkles in their hands. Ashrah observed the remaining of that unbelievable power. She felt like Cetrion was still holding her hand. All the good feelings and the good actions in the universe emanated from that energy. “I can still feel it, in my veins,” she confessed.

“The power is yours. You always had it with you, and when you most needed rescue, it illuminated your path. You have used it before.”

“I did. But never like that. I felt... I felt almost like a...”

“A goddess?” Cetrion’s suggestion sounded so true and so laughable. _We must remember where we are,_ she said to herself. _What we are._

To prove her point, the worst possible thing happened – the Light, even for a split second, turned into the essence of darkness. Ashrah quickly hid her arm, knowing that it would have never escape Cetrion’s careful eyes. How could she allow that to happen? She could not bear the thought of facing the Goddess of Virtue again. The dream... it seemed so close for a moment, and now so impossibly far. _There will never be an escape?_ She asked her Kriss, only then realising that the weapon was not on her waist.

A strand of hair fell on her eyes. A hand made of flesh fondled her cheek, hiding the strand back behind her ears.

“Your... Your fingers,” Ashrah stuttered.

“Do not be afraid of yourself,” Cetrion said. The Goddess involved Ashrah’s head with her both hands. Inside her pupils, there was the whole wide world, the whole virtue of nature. Around them, fire and water intertwined. “The same fire that destroys is the one that warm. The water that nourishes one day, floods entire cities in another. Nature demands balance. You, child...”

Cetrion stopped. Her eyes, so full of life a moment ago, became pale, sick. The Goddess of Virtue stood up and distanced herself. Ashrah felt another hand on her shoulder. She turned around to see Kronika, staring at both figures from her supreme elevation.

Ashrah promptly kneeled before the entity she still did not fully understand but was even more aware of her incalculable might. She entered Cetrion's Paradise without an invitation. There was nowhere to hide from supremacy.

“I am pleased to see you live.”

“We are ashamed to have failed you,” Ashrah spoke for her and the Kriss. She heard a hiss nearby, finding the weapon on the grass. “The Mindbender was in possession of a nefarious object we could not oppose.”

“You were wonderful, Ashrah,” Kronika said with that strange smile. Like Cetrion, she caressed the White Warriors face; her touch, however, had no affection. It was a gesture of control, demand for submission, a quiet humiliation. “But you can do better.”

Cetrion put even more distance between the other two as Kronika laid down her new mission. “As you witnessed, the Mindbender got hold of something that did not belong to him. Fortunately, the Sands of Time dealt with his transgression,” Kronika moved her arms in a circle, and the sands rose from the river, projecting the image of what appeared to be an Earthrealmer. “Likewise, this man is possessed by demonic energy. An energy that allows him to break the purity I must maintain in the world. His name is Johnny Cage, and your task is to pacify him.”


	7. Time Has Us But We Do Not Have Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightwolf and Stryker travel to Netherrealm in search of knowledge. Kronika takes notice of their meddling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're halfway through the story! For those who are still here, congratulations and thank you! x)

Kurtis Stryker seldom queried the mystic forces in action around him. Some people – the kind of people who threw fireballs with their hands, flew along with the thunder and had liquid ice in place of blood – told him that, for his sanity’s sake, he should not seek to interfere pro or contra such elements. His internalised inferiority, on many occasions, felt like a favour.

Where were those people now, though? Were they fighting in some unknown and distant dimension, far away from the sunlight and the sparkle of the stars? Were they protecting the people they so proudly said in the past were under their safekeeping? Or were the others as confused as the shaman, running in circles in the hopes of stumbling into someone or something who held the answers?

The last portal had been the sixth. It took the shaman and the police officer to another dingy region of the abominable realm that Stryker prayed he would never need to see again. Nightwolf offered him to stay behind but it was not fair. No matter how spiritually elevated the shaman was, the memories would burn him as much as his friend, and both of them could benefit from each other’s company. For when you spend years of your life trapped in Hell, chastised by its torturers, you do not forget the experience. Stryker had died but a part of him lived in his corrupted form; impotent, vulnerable, he watched all the cruelty perpetrated by his **Revenant**. He tried to break the shackles, gnaw his own bones, but the evil creature was stronger. Whenever he looked at his creation, Quan Chi also stared at the defenceless soul, and he laughed.

Nightwolf wandered about the surly land of leafless, lifeless trees which branches looked like skeletal arms stretching to reach the foreigners. Tears of lava exuded from the mountains; here and there, the floor broke to reveal pools of blazing blood. Stryker’s feet burnt inside the heavy boots.

Everywhere in Netherrealm looked the same. Everything was dead and wicked, painful and dreadful. _Where are you taking us?_ He asked mentally; for now, his patience and faith on his friend’s wisdom were still holding up, although he could not feel they were going deeper and deeper into a monster’s hungry stomach.

A screech high above alerted his instincts, obliging him to take cover from the beast aloft. But upon spying the dense sky, Stryker realised it was no beast; not an evil one, at least. **Hana** was coming back for her search, wiggling and jittering to get rid of the pollution of that air.

“We are close,” Nightwolf announced. _To what?_ Stryker looked around, seeing nothing different.

They entered a cave. The air was denser and hotter. The officer tried to keep his breathing under control, but he was exhausted. All around them, old and new blood painted the rocks. Heads were attached to stalactites.

“A war happened here, years ago.”

“And now it happened again.”

Nightwolf nodded. Time was recycling the bad events but ignoring all the joy of the past, as if its shimmer could no longer solace the longing hearts. _Could it be true?_ Stryker thought. The pain, he witnessed first-hand, was still very incandescent; then a terrible conjecture pinched his chest as he wondered how much more of his demons of yore he would have to face before that black tunnel came to an end.

They reached an area, a dead end, where skeleton pieces hanged from the walls. On the farthest wall, a purple and black altar was erected in name of some devil. No one came to demand an explanation for the intrusion, and yet Stryker’s ears were clogged with the immense residue of power hiding in that cave.

“Shinnok,” he said, and a gush of frigid wind assaulted the place. Once more, Nightwolf agreed. “What the hell are we doing here?”

“Stay aside,” the shaman asked. **Kira** popped in by his side, sniffing around. When she what she was looking for, she howled. Nightwolf knelt by her side, touching the indicated spot. He caressed the animal and it disappeared. “Do not fear the visions, my friend.”

Stryker was too worried about the gale to process the shaman’s words. Nightwolf cut the palm of his hand with a knife, letting the blood drip on the purple stones. He intoned phrases in the Matoka language. The cave grew darker, cooler. Indistinguishable shapes roamed around them. Stryker dodged the shadows that flew above him, afraid they would cut his head off. He tried to call the shaman, but his voice was stolen by the ghosts.

Then he saw her – Ashrah; standing in the middle of the cave, her smoky image fluttering like a fading memory. She was different. There was an obscure sparkle in her eyes; they looked as profound and terrifying and malignant as the cave’s entrance. She wielded a thorn blade, and at every movement of her arms, scratches of blood blurred the picture.

Quan Chi appeared next to her. Stryker tried to scream, to warn her. Ashrah turned to him and knelt. The egregious sorcerer caressed her head as in a blessing. And then more killing proceeded.

Her impeccable white robe became a filth mess of blood and viscera. The cloth was tearing, showing her arms, legs, belly. The shadow was bulky but not enough to hide the marks that covered her body as if the thing that ruined her robe was now tearing her flesh apart.

An object glimmered on the vision: the sword Ashrah carried with motherly apprehension. Stryker watched when girl and blade united, followed by the audacious escape from Quan Chi’s hands. The murder spree accompanied her. However, the hate that plagued her eyes gave place to a desponding hope.

The image was taken away by the wind. Nightwolf stood on the other side, keenly and perfunctorily watching as the curtains closed. Stryker sweated, his blood convulsing inside his veins, his eyes twitching.

“What was that?” he finally asked.

“That was the past explained and the future gaining meaning,” Nightwolf answered. He then divagated. “She was put in here under Quan Chi’s uninstructed protection. They thought they could keep her locked behind the bars of ignorance; a benighted slave who would worship her masters. In a way, they were not wrong, however...” he looked at the officer. “She told me you bought her ice cream. Is that true?”

“What this has to do with anything?”

Nightwolf smirked. “I believe you might have spoiled a Titan's plan, my friend. Now, Cetrion's role is...”

From the ashes circling the crater, a sandstorm arose, blinding their vision. Stryker attempted to cut through the mass of dust but it was thick, poisonous. Faces lolloped in the stream; unrecognisable and dreadful faces.

“What’s happening?”

“Kronika got to the same conclusion,” Nightwolf shouted from somewhere amidst the vortex. Even at a higher volume, his temper was calm and disciplined.

And then, all those particles of sand gathered. They gained density and solidness. Two pillars erected an imposing statue of alloy; in one of its hands, the fingers stretched, swollen and petrified into a rock. The faces battled until one of them won the war, conquering them all, becoming one.

“Nightwolf. Kurtis Stryker,” that thing said. Stryker resisted the urge to cover his ears against that voice that came from the depths of the Earth and reached the whole universe. Wherever Liu Kang, Raiden and all the others were, Stryker felt they could hear that beast which took the image of a sinewy fighter but its essence was far more than any mortal body could compress; the glowing blue eyes were just another hint.

“ **Geras** ,” Nightwolf replied, both showing deep respect as if they were long-time friends. The officer could only stare at the giant. He had never seen Kronika but _titan_ sounded like a good title for that man.

“We needn’t have this conversation. You insist on interfering on plans that do not involve you.”

“I am afraid they do. The spiritual world is not oblivious to the passage of time, and I was warned of a great danger threatening to subdue fate.”

“You have my word that disrupting the realm of your ancestors is not part of the balance.”

“A noble promise from an honourable heart. Alas, it cannot be trusted.”

Geras grunted, unsurprised but still discontent. He lifted his arms; columns of sand rose from the ground, spikes covered the walls. As Stryker analysed the even more corrupted cave, the fight began.

Geras charged with brute strength, seizing the shaman as if he was a broken toy, crushing his back against the nearest wall. But the violent impact also served to pierce a knife through Geras’ belly; despite all his size and muscles, he _felt_ that. Golden blood dripped from the gash.

His rock-shaped hand attempted an act of revenge against the trapped enemy. Stryker, who had been watching for long enough, plunged into the beast’s back, turning on the taser in its highest voltage and diving the weapon into his nape. Geras trembled but seemed to barely feel the energy that would have killed any mortal man. His hand reached the officer and threw him aside. Having dealt with the unimportant fly, the monstrous being marched towards his most interesting opponent.

Nightwolf graciously dodged the brute punches; when the opportunity showed itself, he dug his spiritual tomahawk into Geras’ back. The beast fell on his knee but only for a second; Striker blinked and then the enemy vanished, leaving a small pile of sand in his place. He resurged in one of his strategic pillars, trembling the ground as he invested against the shaman. Stryker drew his pistol and shot, but the bullets did little to interrupt the brute. When Hana intervened, however, clawing his orbits and biting his cheeks, Geras was obliged to shift his focus; and he _actually_ counter-attacked the eagle, for Stryker’s astonishment, proving once more that that creature was not mortal despite its specious guise.

Looking around with red-glowing eyes, he seemed to have gone blind. But whether guided by rage or healed by some mysterious power, Geras soon found his opponent, and the battle continued.

The giant was more cautious now. He constantly invoked his sands for teleportation, and when Nightwolf stroke a hit, he would turn back in time, seconds before the successful attack, rendering it a failure. The shaman, with his nose bleeding, broken teeth and ragged clothes, landed few attacks in return. Stryker noticed, however, that even though they were in smaller quantities, Nightwolf’s attack dealt _more_ damage. The sandy blood flowed in large quantity; as his vial emptied, his movements became sluggish and anaemic.

Kira gnawed his ankle; Hana lacerated his head; Stryker joined in with his baton, smashing the creature’s backbones with the vigour of a bear. The critical hit came from Nightwolf’s bow, which put an arrow in the giant’s chest.

“You kill me, I come back stronger. There is no escaping destiny,” Geras, pinned to the ground, forebode.

“I do not intend to kill you, miserable slave.”

“This knowledge you seek? It will destroy you. Kronika is the only one who can bend time to her will.”

“You praise your mistress but she deceives herself. We are beings of time: we walk in its path, delight in its miracles, dwell in its promises and cower at its judgement. Time has us but we do not have time.”

“A mere peek at the sands of fate will corrupt your mind!” Geras tried one last piece of desperate advice.

“What is the power of time compared to the power of the spirits?”

With this, Nightwolf sank his tomahawk into Geras’ chest, plucking the shimmering artefact that appeared to serve as his heart. The giant screamed as if only then he learned the meaning of pain; still, he did not die but kept vigilant as the shaman stared deeply into the luminous object.

“You see something?” Stryker ventured to inquire.

It was clear, judging by Nightwolf’s transfixed eyes, that the glowing medallion was giving him a spectacle. Never in one’s life was one so immersed, as if by submerging one’s head into a pool, one could see the whole fate of the universe – what has been, what is, and what will be. Noticing Geras’ sulkiness turning into a faint smile, the officer got increasingly worried about the actors of such play.

_That’s enough_ , he thought, rushing to take the artefact off the shaman’s hands. As he touched the object, a burst sent the two warriors flying in opposite directions. The cursed artefact fell in the middle of the cave, stared by the three of them. No one moved.

“What did you see?” Stryker asked with a commanding timbre.

“He saw the truth,” Geras answered with morbid anxiety. “He understood that Kronika shall win and there is nothing that can prevent it.”

Stryker called his friend over and over.

“He is right,” Nightwolf finally said. “Kronika must win.”

He stood up and helped the puzzled officer equilibrate on his feet. Then they headed outside.

“What are you doing? What about Geras? And Kronika?” Stryker demanded.

“No good will come of his murder. Let him return to his mistress and tell her the truth. Meanwhile, I must consult with the one god I am sure we can still trust.”

“You just said Kronika must win. Are you planning on joining her?”

“I said Kronika must win, not that she must prevail.”

Stryker could not see how much better that scenario was. His head was in a whirlwind: he thought about the visions, about Quan Chi and his Revenant torturing his soul, about Ashrah... he thought about the hardship she endured in Netherrealm, and how desperately her conscience must be fighting to get rid of the scourge of evil. He needed to help her. As it seemed, that idea was in conflict with Kronika's schemes. _We've fought gods already. Not directly and not alone, but still... How worse can a Titan be?_

"Do you plan on fighting Kronika, then?"

Nightwolf stopped to consider. "Yes. But not with _kombat_. Come, let us buy ice cream."


	8. To Kill a God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashrah confronts Johnny Cage and the Special Forces. The task that sounded simple takes dark turns.

Finding the target was the easy part. Ashrah never had to worry much about it, since the Kriss whispered instructions in her head, guiding her into a cloudy but sure-fire path. So far, all of Kronika's instructions had been equally accurate. The Earthrealmer cursed with the ancient demonic power was in her sight. _Both_ of them. One was older, more serious and displaying the posture of a maturated warrior, distributing orders and supervising the training of his little army. The other, younger, was a clown, nothing but a shell, a larva waiting to become his true self. Unfortunately, Kronika did not want to give him that chance.

If that was a victim for the cursed Brotherhood of Shadows, she would not even need to sweat. Sewing the voodoo dolls would be the hardest part; after the artisan's work was done, she would break their bones, flay their skin, pluck their eyes and tongue, drink their blood, all from the comfort and enjoyment of a puppeteer playing their greatest spectacle!

She shook her head. That Ashrah was not her. Not anymore. She would pacify them and she would do it like an honourable warrior, face to face with the prey. The Kriss shone in agreement, indicating that the **younger Johnny Cage** was the grandeur demon among the group. He was causing affliction to his poor, older self. Slicing his throat would help restore the balance.

Her thoughts travelled back to Cetrion. _Nature demands balance_ , were her last words before the abrupt interruption. What was she trying to say? Ashrah’s head boiled in search of meaning. The goddess sounded so wise. She was thankful to have learned from her, and her desire to know more was fervent. As soon as she finished that mission, she would try to communicate with her.

Then her thoughts travelled further back to Kurtis Stryker. Those knights below her carried similar weapons to those she helped in New York. Could they belong to the same army? Maybe Stryker had lived amongst demons and was not even aware of the danger! Only Ashrah know how much those fiends could be deceitful.

“I will kill the demons,” she guaranteed. “I will protect you and then I will understand." She glanced at the Kriss. "We will be free.”

Ashrah pushed her arms against the wall, diving from the rooftop where the eagle had observed the rabbit. No one saw her landing but, as soon as she marched towards the military camp, all eyes turned to her, transfixed by the aura irradiating from the pristine warrior. The mutter echoed from different lips. Staggered. Scared. Burdened with indecision and desire to come to her: the Light was the natural path for the souls.

As Kronika foretold, three soldiers stepped ahead – the two Johnny Cage and **Sonya Blade**.

“Ain’t a bit hot in there?” the younger Cage joked. He was nervous, Ashrah could sense it. They were _all_ nervous, as the white robe and large hat did not give any clue about what they were about to antagonize. Kronika said the woman and the older demon-infused Earthrealmer were experienced in war. They fought in many battles and won all of them. It was not easy to intimidate such hardened spirits.

“Can we help you?” the older Cage asked. A friendly approach to disguise the thrill of the uncertainty. He did not want to fight. In his voice, Ashrah perceived a man who had already seen his share of blood.

“Johnny Cage,” Ashrah proclaimed. The two versions exchanged a glance. “I am sorry about your misfortune. You should know I fathom your pain.”

“You here to pray a mass?”

While the younger and self-denying Cage counter-attacked with his childish humour, the older man found empathy in the White Warrior’s words. He was about to walk towards her, accept her solace, embrace the Paradise he dreamed of in the bottom of his consciousness, when the woman’s hand blocked his path.

“State your business or we’ll open fire," Sonya said in a vilipend tone.

Ashrah went for the Kriss bounded up to her back. She floundered. Why was that? Demons take many shapes and she should not trust her eyes. The Kriss knew better, like that time when the demon tried to deceive her in the skin of a child. No. She was a warrior and she had a mission!

The vision of the sinuous blade evoked fury and dread. All the soldiers took a step back.

"This wench is your minion, Johnny Cage?"

Their eyes meet. Sonya was consumed by the sin of ire. She gave a command and then the bullets came.

A rain of steel, harbingers of destruction, millions of small avatars of death. The frenzy was immeasurable as Ashrah spotted, for the first time, the demonic corruption in those bodies. They were doomed. Lost. Exactly like Kronika told her. The solution was one – to pacify.

The order to cease the storm was given. The smoke of the fire was blown away by the wind, gradually revealing a mural formed by the very capsules they hurled against her. The bullets hovered, one by one touched by the Light, their momentum stole.

“Get the fuck down!”

Most of the soldiers did not share Sonya’s comprehension of what was about to happen. The drops of Light ricocheted back. The weak flesh was blessed by the projectiles, burning the evil out of them. The soil was ablaze with blood, smoke covering the sunlight, the scent of scorched meat reminding her of Netherrealm. _The path to Paradise begins in hell_ , she remembered.

Ashrah’s voice materialized amidst the coughing of the survivors. “Johnny Cage. Do not be afraid. The pain is enormous, but it will end.”

From the middle of the ashes, a green light was born. In high speed, it reached Ashrah, hitting her stomach with unprecedented force. “Eat my dust!” the target cursed, humour and angst mixing and confusing each other. Ashrah checked her stomach: she felt a hole in it, though her robes and her flesh were intact.

“What’s happening here?” A new voice echoed. The smoke lowered, and the White Warrior saw three new fighters joining the battlefield.

“ **Cassandra** , **Jacqueline** , **Jackson**. Kronika said you would come.”

“Get out of here, you three!”

Jacqueline’s first instinct was to try and help the robbed woman, but again Sonya proved to be faster, and her imposing gesture spoke higher than Johnny’s plea.

“Don’t let she deceive you. _Any_ of you.”

“I’ll give you one more chance to explain,” Johnny Cage eddied the conversation. Sonya frowned at him, proud and horrified as blood dripped from a scratch in her elbow. Diplomacy was over; when no answer came from the opponent, the sextet assembled, ready to banish the threat.

“I am sorry,” Ashrah offered before the dance began.

Sonya and Cassandra attacked at once in her right, while Jackson and Jacqueline repeated the strategy in the left. Ashrah span in the middle of the air, her Kriss cutting the two youngsters in one acrobatic. Metal arms grabbed her by the neck, but before Sonya could strike with her boots, Ashrah teleported behind the future general, pushing her against her partner.

The two Johnny Cage didn’t have the same synchronicity. The younger version tried an energized flip kick, while the other used the same movement his past version used before: the charged kick. It was easy for Ashrah to calculate the trajectory, dodge and make one collide against the other.

She cornered the younger Johnny’s head, the Kriss thirsty to taste his wicked blood. In her anxiety to end the task, she ignored her surrounding, and Cassandra seized the negligence to assail the opponent. They both rolled on the ground until the soldier drew her pistols and gathered all her strength to hit Ashrah’s head. _Strong mortal, but not forged in the pits of hell._

Cassandra’s fingers accommodated on the trigger but pressing them was beyond her time. Ashrah focused the Light on her palms, striking the demon’s chest and throwing her far. For some reason, older Johnny got particularly worried about the girl’s health, hurrying to help her, forgetting the battle unfolding around him.

Ashrah had barely gotten up when Jackson took another shot. His metal arms punched the warrior’s chin and, because of this, confidence stacked up. The White Warrior allowed him to land another punch and then his third attack was as miscalculated and stately as she planned. She took him down with a sweep kick, letting the Light finish the job by perforating his ribs and stealing his consciousness.

Jacqueline was terrified by the sight of the metal-armed soldier getting defeated. She plunged into the air and punched the ground with seismic force. Ashrah did a somersault, in her way down striking the bad-tempered girl with a punt in the forehead.

Sonya came next. She proved to be the most skilled combatant in the group, exchanging various deft punches and kicks before Ashrah could find a gap and perform a precise hook. Still, giving up was not her style. She spat a tooth, promptly reading herself to another round. She would fight until night, and then into the next morning; fight until she could no longer bear the weight of her own spirit.

“The trade is not worth it,” Ashrah said. “The dark power is compelling, but it will take away from you everything that is worth living for.”

Sonya gnashed her teeth, licking the crimson hole in her mouth.

A surprise attack stopped their ultimate battle. Three balls of energy beat Ashrah: a titanic sting stunned all her being, the ground opened and skeleton hands chocked her. The two Johnny Cage and Cassandra had their hands wrapped by that green light, a power she had never seen before, a pain she had never felt in any of her hunts.

“A goddess?” Cassandra questioned, exchanging a worried glance with older Johnny.

“Why attack us?” he asked.

Ashrah opened her mouth to answer, but another ball of energy clouted her, prying out a horrifying howl for her lungs.

“Stop it!”

“You going to give her a chance to humbug you... _again?"_ she knew it was the two Cage arguing, though her vision was blurred by the laceration. _What is this power? Why Kronika did not tell me about it?_ She suffocated in thoughts. “Are you blind? Look around you! How many more fatalities before you realise she’s the enemy?”

“I never thought I’d agree with him, but I have to now,” Sonya joined in the discussion.

“Can’t we call Raiden?”

_Raiden... Raiden..._ the name echoed in Ashrah’s head. _The amulet... Shinnok!_ A fury she could not explain or control flooded her heart. The scream of pain transformed into pure Netherrealm rage, and that volcano erupted. The blast of dark convulsion slapped them all, separating the group, each one collapsing against a corpse, a construction; against their own minds, which showed them abominable visions of an abyss they never thought could be real.

The only one still standing was Ashrah. The Light still revolved around her arms, except it was no longer white... it was Dark. Dark as her wrath. Dark as her thoughts. Dark as the pandemonium in her soul.

“Shinnok...?”

Sonya’s question only fuelled the hell inside the warrior. A beam of shadows gained self-will and started insanely towards the general, chopping off half of her legs, denying her escape. Her cry was accompanied by Johnny Cage – both versions attacked at once without hesitation or coordination. The same rampage affected them: nothing mattered but the hunting and the unstoppable ire.

Ashrah surrendered to that power. The dark energy magnified the mighty of the Kriss, amplifying its size and strength. Every time she saw the green energy, the anger increased, and the clouds, chastised by that violent turmoil, twirled in anguished faces. Thunderbolts mimicked the battle below, a spectacle of passion that no eye should be obligated to testify.

In the showdown, the oppose energies clashed, shooking the whole territory. All the warriors were worn out, but the task remained incomplete.

The bloodthirsty beast lunged into Johnny Cage; no more bravado, the jokes were dead. With the twisted claws of the cursed blade, the huntress sliced the prey’s throat. A fountain of dark-red water was set free, staining her white rob; a sanguinary pool entrapped them. The darkness screamed and anguished; it frets its own demise. All the shadows evaporated and as life vanished from the young Earthrealmer, only then, Ashrah's vision cleared and she realised what had just happened.

The corpse fell from her trembling hands. Silence crowned the funeral as the remaining Johnny Cage, a pale Cassandra and a moribund Sonya Blade stared at the river of blood coming out of the ripped flesh. Ashrah's feet were drowning in the blood of the prey who, in death, looked so innocent and pure. She tried to raise a leg but she was chained, obliged to stare at her own disfigured face reflexed in the red mirror.

“What did you do?” Johnny was not angry. That feeling found no place in there anymore. A tear dropped from his one good eye as his body was reduced to sand. Following the trace of ancient, perverse magic, Ashrah witnessed Cassandra slowly disappearing, from toe to head, exactly like Johnny. Exactly like her father.

The Kriss tumbled from the huntress’ hands.


	9. The Straightforward Path Was Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashrah faces the consequences of the bloodshed. From the skies come a daunting revelation.

Ashrah was on the edge of praying to Shinnok. She craved death; to turn into worthless dust and be carried away by the wind, just like Johnny Cage. She tried to hide the truth but she was still a servant to the God of Death, and he would not allow her to close her eyes. His vilest enterprise was not the nightmares or the dismay he inflected on his servant, not even the weeds that drained the love from her heart, but the idea that those things would last forever. That, when she was allowed to die, she would not escape him, but plunge right into his realm.

Ashrah found refugee on a cave but the silence was even worse than the screams. In the merciless twilight, the angst on the ruined family’s face haunted her more than the Netherrealm demons. Quan Chi's crusades were never so fierce as the ghost of Johnny Cage.

Still, the Kriss was not satisfied. It demanded more blood. More purification. Who were to blame? That sharp and ravenous blade or the warrior who wielded it, a slave to all its wicked wishes? Ashrah could not abandon the Kriss behind. She seemed so hurt and helpless and cowed. Or was it her own reflex in the pale blade? In the darkness of the cave, the demonic glass was empty, deprived of life.

_What do you want from me?_ She tried to communicate telepathically with the weapon. She thought the blade was quiet when, in fact, all it ever said was “blood, blood, blood”. Her ears were wet with the dripping wound on her temple. Her calloused hands could barely hold the screaming infant. Cracks began up in her shoulder, opening canals all the way through her torso. More scars shattered her skin. Her body was pulverizing.

In a gigantic effort, Ashrah stood up, tramping out of the cave, interlacing her fingers on the blade’s pommel. The melody of the river echoed throughout the forest, greeting the numb warrior. She marched inside the gelid water, submerging up to her chest. "The water that nourishes one day, floods entire cities in another" - those had been Cetrion's words. In that particular day, the flow of the river altered its course to avoid contact with the impure creature; it neither fed nor swallowed the warrior.

Underwater, the Kriss glowed faintly. The blood along its curves distilled. A piercing chant created bubbles. The birds stopped singing and wild beasts spied on the stain in their sacred nature, all of them listening to the blade’s sorrowing. Ashrah’s heart was a sculpture of stone to that fallacious suffering, neither enjoying nor resenting it. Without saying goodbye, Ashrah heaved the Kriss. The blade ripped the air in moaning commotion until it pierced through the water, far from where its owner watched, still as a tombstone. A pool of blackened water surrounded the White Warrior; the glacier melted, dead fishes swimming convoluted routes.

She undressed her hat, leaning it against her belly, imitating a woman that she had seen upon her arrival. The Earthrealmer stood in front of a house in ruins, cradling a small headpiece attached to a net that reminded her of a spider web. She was crying. Ashrah could not mimic that last gesture.

She untied her hair, remembering how long it was when she felt it submerging. The breeze loosened the strands. The wind was getting stronger and faster; her hair was almost pulled off her head when a fiery and anarchic breath of air blew the forest and all the creatures living in peace. Immovable, Ashrah did not bend the knee in the face of such a demonstration of power. Not out of disrespect for the figure tearing the clouds above, but she could not find the strength to move. So, when the personification of the hurricane darted towards her, she allowed herself to be captured and taken to the skies.

A face distorted by anger cast unspeakable threats. Ashrah flew for about five minutes, the air burning her face every second. Her lacerated, befouled body was thrown on a floor made of cold and pointy stones. Before she could raise her head to the vigorous soldier, he grabbed her neck and smashed her nose against the earth. Raising his opponent above his head with his bare muscles, the infuriated fighter rushed into a steel statue, bashing her back against the thick legs of the figure.

Paralysed, Ashrah admired the obdurate face of the man who crushed her bones – Raiden, the God of Thunder. Not the perverse character she met in flesh, but the hero from Kurtis Stryker’s stories, the golden warrior who defended Earthrealm with honour and bravery. None of the dark imprints of Shinnok’s influence was sculpted in that sacred monument.

The undaunted visage of the statue was clouded by stormy eyes. Another god, Ashrah deduced. This one had a golden tiara that prevented his white hair, white like the clouds and winds he manipulated, from falling apart. His skin was swarthy from prolonged exposition to the sun and his breath burned Ashrah’s cheeks and seared the wounds across her face.

“Get up!” he shouted, using his winds to aid the opponent, who stumbled on her feet just to fall again. “Fight me!”

He landed punch after punch, maintaining a consistent grit fuelled by blind wrath. Ashrah received each of them with dignity, with desire. Her blood, sometimes red and sometimes black, drizzled from every pore.

Tired of imparting a slow death, the **Wind God** unsheathed a wide and heavy sword adorned with ancient symbols on the blade. Little meaning had its saying, for the intention was vivid. It was time to put an end to the quest of eternal suffering. Her arms were already stretched, so Ashrah only opened her hands, allowing her fingers to rest on the viscid rocks. The colossal sword blocked out the sunray. She kept her eyes as open as allowed by the bruises and the pain, welcoming the executioner.

When the sword dropped, it miscalculated the trajectory, thrusting into the mountain instead of gashing her heart. The Wind God sought solace in the weapon’s pommel, embracing it and hiding the shame on his diamond eyes. To alleviate his agony, Ashrah crawled away from his sight, leaning her back on the nearest wall, her body in a twisted position.

“You abandoned your weapon,” the god said. “But you could’ve still fought. Why didn’t you?”

“Your mission was noble.” Speaking proved harder than she imagined. Her vocal cords were fragile, each word fraying the strands.

“What nobility is there in revenge? And what purpose serves a heart wrenched? Is there still someone to fight for? They killed everything they put their eyes on...”

“The demons?”

The god giggled but, above the duo, the sky agitated in dark-blue colours. He used the sword as a crutch to stand up, revealing ragged clothes and a mutilated skin, deep wounds in his chest and arms exposing bones and sinews. He was in no conditions to battle. And yet, he was decided to fight until his last breath.

“For millenniums, we defended the realms on the outside. Together, gods and mortals rose against the evils that threatened to annihilate us,” he stopped by Raiden’s feet. “But we were not prepared for an attack from the inside. Your own body, your own soul, fighting against you. How can one battle against oneself?”

Ashrah caressed the scars along her arm. For a time, she saw them getting brighter, smaller, becoming nothing but tatters of a nightmare. Now, so close to the clouds, under the diaphanous light of the sky, she noticed they were immutable. The same height, the same colour, the same intensity. With her robe in shreds, there was nothing to hide their grotesqueness.

"Nightwolf told me about you." She raised her eyes to the Wind God. "I do not believe he knows what you truly are. Worse, you do not know who _you_ are. That battle? You already lost it.”

He gave his back to Ashrah, isolating himself in thoughts. She realised she was back at the Sky Temple, though in a different part of the enormous construction. Raiden was nowhere to be seen. Not in flesh and bones. _The Sands..._ Ashrah remembered.

“I am a tool of purification,” she replied, trying to convince herself of the purpose of her lasting existence, although the weakness in her conviction was palpable.

“You are a tool, indeed. You are the perfect tool,” the god returned his attention to the fallen warrior, his eyebrows meeting each other as he meditated. “Light and darkness in a single soul who cannot begin to understand the power within it. Maybe Nightwolf was right about Cetrion and was not only mercy that stopped her from finishing me. We are worried about Liu Kang and Raiden, Scorpion and Sub-Zero, when we should be looking at _you_. You are Kronika’s secret weapon. Her ultimate weapon.”

A vortex awakened inside Ashrah. She felt the demons agitating within her heart, fighting against the dimly Light. The god’s words perforated something inside her, aching more than the punches.

“You are the daughter of Light and Darkness,” he concluded. “The offspring of Cetrion and Shinnok.”


	10. Children of Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guided by troubled thoughts, Ashrah travels back to the Netherrealm, where she confronts the truth about her duality.

The conflict inside her exploded. A burst of grey energy launched Ashrah into the skies, and following her soul’s command, she travelled beyond the realm of mortals and gods. Below, the Wind God cried her name and invoked the winds to take her down, but she was far away from his reach.

_Do not attempt to subdue your power_ , Cetrion’s words echoed in the vacuum. Her grimy silhouette speeded up in front of the White Warrior. _Let it open its wings and sail free._

Ashrah released the choking wind in her lungs and her scream propagated across dimensions. She slipped through a tear in reality, arriving at a place that robbed her heartbeats. The Light extinguished; she flung her arms, but like a bird that forgets how to fly, she collapsed.

The soil was hard, dry, scorching. Ashrah looked at her palms, stained by a sickening crimson, the mark of the undying blood of countless demons, penitents, angels. The first time she killed, it was there. She could still hear the creature’s growl, echoing across the tunnel of her memories, dividing and propagating into the many wailings, shrieks and roars that followed. Not far from there, she had been trapped by her preys; it was the first time she was beaten and bitten, nearly murdered if it was not for the intervention of her solicitous tormentors. Yonder, she descried the sulphur wall where she crushed the skull of one of her own sisters, a traitor to the commandments of the Shadows. It was not long after that, that Ashrah herself became a traitor, fleeing through dark tunnels and spikey roads, hiding in caves infested by all sort of devils.

**Netherrealm**. The place she had called _home_. The place where she once had a _family_. Ashrah had dreamed day and night about leaving the forlorn realm. Her escape came with the chime of a clock, a tower bell, as if angels had descended into hell. Now something had dragged her back. She stood up, turning her back to all the doleful memories: in front of her, stood a colossal palace built with fervent rocks and strengthened with the calcium of undead bones. Her weighed down heart leashed her and conducted her towards the construction, which got bigger and darker as she approached. What once would have been a frightening vision, downing her on her knees, now was an object of disgust and hate.

Guards dressed in demon fur chased her with spears and axes. Guided by the turmoil in her bosom, Ashrah disappeared among the corroding mist, reappearing inside the palace.

It was silent. Her ears were clogged. The only noise came from torches spread across the hall, hissing an ineffective threat. The thick, brown walls were adorned with a panoply of weapons, shields and armours, many of them tarnished, wrinkled or tainted with dirt and blood. No one came to stop her. Maybe she was not even there. Ashrah felt like only a fragment of her heart was beating, only a portion of her soul was alive, only one side of her was awake.

A jagged, grey arch marked the entrance to the farthest, deepest corner of the palace. Bones of demons, humans and gods, in all possible shapes and sizes, were boastfully displayed throughout the walls and ceilings; the White Warrior recognised many of the hunted creatures, while one of the human skulls reminded her of her Earthrealm companions, fuelling her ire. Candles projected a dim aura. The floor was slippery from a recent bloodshed; whoever fought that battle was long gone. A nefarious cathedral, the place to worship everything heinous, perverse and villainous that the world had created. At its centre, sitting on an altar of spikes, imprisoned by arcs of energy, was the progenitor of wickedness.

From the chin below, dry blood hinted at the barbarian beheading. The face was exsanguine, the lips arid. The eyes could barely stay open, but the entity made a strenuous effort after seeing his visitor.

“For seven days and seven nights, I tortured Quan Chi. I made him search every corner of the Netherrealm... but you were lost. I wasn’t allowed to go after you. Broke my heart to see you gone, but when I heard about you, it did make me proud. All the sacrifices. All the killing.”

**Shinnok** giggled, his throat gurgling blood.

Ashrah circled the head. The missions Quan Chi gave her were nightmarish but nothing compared to the horrors of the night. Every time she laid her head on the rocks, visions of the **Elder God of Death** invaded her brain. The horror never embodied to the assassins of his Brotherhood of Shadows but the tales narrated by his slave tormented their imagination. Incarnations of evil were believed to visit the sisters who misbehaved. The surviving warriors were tasked to dispose of the body parts left behind and wash the blood soaking the land.

Ashrah always dreamed about her turn. One day, Shinnok would come to her, disguised as a serpent, an insect or a friend, and she would know true fear and true pain. In her sleep, she could feel his skeleton hands tearing a hole in her chest, crawling inside every piece of her body and devouring her from within.

Now... now the corporation of death and evil was merely a head waiting for someone’s mercy. She was nothing like him. No strand of kinship could link those two beings.

“With your help, I can be restored,” Shinnok bargained. “Together, we can crush the petty gods! Raiden. Cetrion. Even Kronika, if we wish!”

Ashrah stretched her hand to touch the head. Her fingertips shone in a bright, pacific colour. If Shinnok could, he would have retracted. In that position, he was open to all sorts of influence.

“Do not pay attention to what Cetrion says!” Shinnok barked between his closed teeth. “I know you found your true power – the power _I_ bestowed upon you – or else you’d have never survived this long!”

The Light touched the Elder God’s cheeks, and even devoid of lungs, he screamed. A cavity decorated his face as if a worm had eaten the rotten corpse. In exchange, the White Warrior’s nails blackened in putrefaction. Before the darkness consumed her, she put the energy into lashes. She controlled it.

Shinnok beamed. “There you are. A true child of...”

A ray of Light pierced the head, perforating brains and skull, melting the eyeballs and the cracked lips. The name _Shinnok_ represented no danger or fear. Quan Chi once discoursed to his white assassins, claiming that “The legacy of life is death.” That was a universal truth. God, demon or mortal, the sand eventually runs out. Death _could_ be killed.

But someone made sure Shinnok’s cycle was harder to break. The blood amounted in bridges, restructuring the molecules that allowed the Fallen God to live. He was not happy.

“You anarchic cub! You disgraceful...”

A mist encircled the duo, its shadow becoming denser and denser. Shinnok coughed and spat blood. Breathing could be heard from the smoke. Footsteps followed.

Ashrah came face to face with a most exceptional demon. The harbinger of doom she had scavenged Netherrealm to find. He was always slipping in his puddles of darkness, leaving only his shadow behind. Instinctively, she groped for the blade, finding a lonely sheath instead. _You abandoned your weapon,_ the Wind God’s words reverberated. _But you could’ve still fought._

“The darkness within you calls to me,” **Noob Saibot** inhaled the putrid air. His voice was hoarse and thready, abysmal and shallow, whispering and shouting; two entities cohabiting one body, a symbiosis between a covetous fallen warrior and a ghoul.

“My Light will purify your evil.”

“The ravings of a child.”

The warriors charged against each other but before the warriors collided, the revenant disappeared in a cloud of darkness, reappearing behind the White Warrior with a kick to her back. Ashrah rolled and stood up in a graceful movement, stopping a punch with her bare hands. She was about to counter-attack when the second monster emerged above, headbutting her.

The duo united for an assault; the original warrior wielded a thorny sickle, while its shadows materialised a viscous copycat for itself. The mist glued to Ashrah’s skin. Shinnok smiled. The demons approached like snakes ready for the lunge. Clenching her teeth, Ashrah stomped her wrists against each other, emitting an explosion of Light that eroded the clone and blinded the original demon. She plunged against the opponent. Before they crashed on the floor, a portal appeared and suck them in.

The world was reduced to a freezing and never-ending tunnel. Both warriors were falling in high speed, each trying to understand what was happening. Noob tried to detach from the White Warrior but her Light cemented him. The ghoul attempted to reach them from rifts opened in the tunnel but he could not touch either of them without getting his gelatinous skin burnt.

“The shadows run in my blood. You cannot control them,” the demon threatened, though his voice was barely heard.

Noob propped his feet against Ashrah’s belly, pushing her down. He created another portal to escape but a whip twined around his ankle, bringing him back to the combat. The surprise comeback affected his reactions, and Ashrah seized the opportunity to envelop her hand in stinging Light, gashing the demon’s stomach.

Noob’s screams were lost in the tunnel, only a faint echo denouncing his pain and awe. His dark blood seeped out, showering Ashrah’s scars with that dirty liquid. They exchanged a glance, and the demon’s poetic confidence was deafened by a sight of despair.

The two fighters fell back at the Bone Temple, Ashrah standing above a bleeding, furious and, above all, scared ghost. The ghoul was nowhere to be found. The tentacles of shadow retreated, concentrating in a single spot: around the winning warrior.

“Finish him!” Shinnok commanded.

A dagger materialized in Ashrah’s hands.

“Don’t!”

With her mouth agape, she glanced at the new voice. “How... You cannot...”

“It’s a trap,” Kurtis Stryker interrupted her babble.

“What trick is this?” Shinnok vexed the officer. “Finish the demon, and then finish this petulant human!”

The White Warrior and the Earthrealmer stared at each other for unending seconds. Ashrah shivered, an itch in her arms as if a multitude of spiders were climbing it. Animals of slim, dark pawns and treacherous venom.

“Finish it,” the order came again, this time from the bleeding lips of Noob. “Or do you have no honour in you? Be a warrior and finish me.”

The dagger grew bigger. With a firm grasp, Ashrah slashed the demon’s stomach, showing the light of the day to the viscera confined inside. The steaming organs scattered around the cadaver. All the evil trapped in the undead body spiralled in a column of smoke, clothing the murderer who, in awe, found out she was still a demon dressed in maiden clothes. The Light had sewed up some of the holes in her attire but not all of them. The scars were still there. The Kriss had promised... Noob Saibot would purify her soul; he was the last of the demons whose name the blade whispered. But she was no longer in possession of the Kriss. She no longer had the blade, and her scars seared more than ever.

“Mother would be so proud,” Shinnok scoffed in a familiar voice. A voice she had been hearing for years. “Isn’t that true, Cetrion?”

The Goddess of Virtue was standing at the temple’s entrance, watching the bloody spectacle with a visage of stone. Mother and daughter exchanged glances, an ailing silence freezing each one’s hearts.

“Do you see my glory? No one will snatch it out of my hands. A fool spurns the father’s discipline, but you go into your chambers, you close the doors and you pray to my name.”

Shinnok, only a head, was satisfied. His Bone Temple earned a new trophy and would perhaps win more than one.

“Is it true?” Ashrah demanded.

“There was love at your creation,” the goddess spoke. “Not any love that could grow in mortal’s soil but one that only heaven can conceive and whose existence affrights hell.”

“She lies, child,” Shinnok hissed. “And you know that.”

Ashrah shook her head. “Wherefore the lands of gods and hounds, bounded by soils of unimaginable wounds, play such designs against me? Am I a divine daughter, or am I an unholy monster?”

“Tell me,” Shinnok disregarded her cry. “What is stopping you from doing to her the same thing you did to that despicable demon?”

“Her heart,” Stryker said, once more attracting to himself the god’s scorn, which would disintegrate a lesser soul; Kurtis Stryker did not even flinch. “You are all deaf, thinking about your powers, your battles and your schemes; always trying to debunk each other. If you would just shut up for a minute, you would hear her heart beating, louder than your voices, stronger than life and death.”

The dagger dissolved. The itch in her arms softened, though she was irrevocably aware of her scars, more present than ever, hurting her like fresh wounds.

“What’s the meaning of this?” A new figure entered the temple. The atmosphere became much hotter. “More insects for us to smash?”

The man and the woman wore black and grey armour, he exhibiting shades of dark red and she boasting a royal but corroded blue; he enveloping his hands in fire, she drawing a pair of magic fans.

“ **Liu Kang?** ” Stryker frowned upon the figures.

Ashrah’s mind was a black garden, yet she knew he was not the same person the officer met in the past. The cracks in his decomposing flesh denounced that they were another pair of death’s pawns. Ashrah imagined she would die in there. All her muscles trembled, she had not enough strength to face them, not enough power to protect Stryker. She heard her bones crackling. Her consciousness was sleeping; she would probably pass out before the first movement has made against her. Above the clamours of the impending war, Shinnok laughed before a flower blossomed inside his mouth.

“Enough!”

Cetrion’s vigorous behest dispatched all the warriors, knocking them down. The goddess kneeled beside her first-born, cleaning her forehead with green leaves. Roots embraced the White Warrior, and the soil absorbed her body.


	11. The Brighest Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashrah recovers from her wounds - both physical and emotional. Raiden's threat returns and Ashrah decides to be succesful in her purification this time.

“She breathes.”

“Thank God!”

“Careful to whom you direct your prayers.”

Ashrah's first sight when she opened her eyes was the mantle of a wolf and a blue cap. Internally, she smiled. It seemed ages since she had last seen those two brave warriors. Since she had seen the world. The plants seemed brighter, the trees healthier and more robust. The soil below her palms was soft and smelled of rain. The breeze on her lips had a mellow flavour.

“Kurtis Stryker,” Ashrah called.

“I’m here,” the police officer was quickly in getting by her side.

“What happened?”

“Well, we were..." he stuttered, also confused. "I thought Nightwolf had sent me to find you. But it seems not all of the Elder Gods have lost their faith in us.”

 _Cetrion_ , Ashrah remembered. _Mother._ She could see her pearl eyes in the stars reflected in the sunny sky. Her warm fingers still caressed her forehead.

 _Shinnok. Father._ His bottomless eyes, his sanguine laughs and, most of all, his undeniable influence, were as clear in her memories. The power of friendship and brutality made a home in her soul.

Stryker showed her a pot.

“The famous tea.”

“Exactly,” he smiled. “Can you drink it?”

With their help, Ashrah sat. Her wrists and legs were patched with bandages and a slimy paste, although what surprised her the most was the new outfit: a light grey robe with buttons up to the neck, a belt using a wolf’s head as buckle and, besides her, soft boots perfect for pilgrimages. She felt like she was shrouded by cotton. Stryker brought the pot next to her lips and aided her in drinking. As she slowly sipped the healing potion, its cooker paced about the grove, watching the clouds’ routine.

“I could really use an ice cream right now,” Ashrah smiled, and the officer imitated her. Then they got serious. “I sense your anxiety, Stryker.”

“What the hell happened? Where were you? The demons didn’t come back, so did you win? Are you still in pain? Shinnok said Cetrion is your mother?” he fired a series of questions, the reddish tone leaving his face as the air returned to his lungs.

Ashrah lowered her head, an odd warm in her cheeks. “I am sorry I abandoned you.”

“We were just worried.”

Stryker kept saying _us_ although Nightwolf was silent and distant.

“Who you thought your parents were?”

“Demons do not have parents. They are not born in love.”

Stryker put a hand on her shoulder. She could not prevent a flinch but the warmth of his hand prevented her from trying to get away as if he were a malign skeleton. She dared to put her hand on his, to feel his Earthrealmer skin with her gaunt fingers.

It then occurred to Ashrah that, in order to patch her up and change her rags, they had to uncover the scars. From her neck to her toes, her body was covered by fissures that attested to her nature. Her true and immutable nature.

“Those words you said at Netherrealm. I do not know if I deserve them.” Ashrah was trained as a warrior and as an assassin but words were never a problem. Now, her diplomacy skills escaped her tongue. “I... I shall understand if you nurtured some form of hate towards my being. I am not...”

“I’m a nobody,” Stryker interrupted her staggering. “Between gods, monks and ninjas, I’m the peasant who opens the curtains of my house every morning and thinks ‘damn... this is a nice world.’ This universe is big. Bigger than me. Bigger than any of us. But I’m a defender. Not only of this realm we live in. I’m a defender of the _self_. No matter what we’re made of, only what we do with what we have. I was a demon once," Ashrah goggled at the officer. "and I believe a part of me will always be. But, carrying this belief close to my heart is what keeps me going.”

Without knowing what to say, Ashrah lowered her head. At a silent signal, Kurtis gave her some space and went ahead to clean the pot on the nearest lake.

“You will lose,” Nightwolf declared. The female wolf watching from the top of a rock howled in agreement. “Until you accept who you are, there is no hope.”

Ashrah stood there, her mouth open but nothing but her damp breathing coming out of it. The whirlpool calmed down, silencing inner agonies that echoed back from many years ago. The scars, she noticed, did not hurt anymore, even though she felt them carved on her flesh. A tear dropped from her eye. And then a second. And a third. The warrior’s skin transpired particles of forsaken energies trapped inside her body.

The wolf howled again, lower this time. The animal laid down his head on the paws, licking the wet snout. His incarnated friend did not stop a tear from smearing the sacred tattoos on his face.

Stryker returned, astonished by the scene of the three crying creatures. He stretched his hand to dry the prolific tears on Ashrah’s face but she stopped him.

“A demon cannot cry. A demon cannot cry!” she recalled.

How beautiful it was to _feel!_ The world was tinged by a spectrum of infinite colours, all sprouting from a deep cave she deemed desolated Ashrah could not name all that was passing through her heart but to her, it was a spectacle of divine proportions. Had her mother felt all that? Her father? Kronika? She doubted it, for at the moment she was the most plenary creature in the universe, perfect in her devilish flaws, godly grace and mortal limitations. Stryker studied her tears until his eyes also wept. There were sadness and joy, ache and relief, bravery and fear, and they embraced all with the same reverence.

It was twilight when the trio washed their faces in the lake. Kurtis stayed a long time with his knees on the soil, scrutinizing his reflex. Ashrah did the same, and the creeping eclipse that besmirched her face and threatened to engulf her whole could not penetrate in the crystalline water. The shaman donated to her spare cloth from the garment he had sewed, so she rambled around the shore, knitting a special gift while her feet delighting in the soft soil; she could never walk barefoot in Netherrealm. Nightwolf sang a melody of the forest, inviting birds and mammals to the orchestra. A family of seabirds danced near the group, bathing them with salty drips of the lake. The animals jumped and plunged back into the water, emitting funny sounds as they did it. Ashrah imagined herself floating like the free spirits that accompanied the shaman; she felt their presence, and they no longer scared her. She never knew Paradise was so close to Earthrealm.

She approached a bewildered Kurtis Stryker, asked him to stretch his hands and, when he obeyed, she placed her gift in his palms.

" **A voodoo doll?** " he asked, laughing and analysing his woollen replica.

"Yes. But one crafted with love, not malice. It is a blessing. From a demon."

"Wow... that's actually quite nice." He thanked the artisan, guarding the doll on the pocket on his chest.

A pair of feet crushed fallen twigs and leaves. Nightwolf and his spiritual companion approached the duo. Another guide, an eagle, flew above the group, escorting the path ahead.

“The power you carry is precious,” the shaman said. “I wish it could be used for better endings, but today the _kombat_ still summons us.”

Nightwolf offered her what Ashrah instantly recognised as a silver scabbard. She took the gift by the curved hilt. She unsheathed the weapon, revealing a twenty-centimetres-long, slightly writhed blade. In many aspects, it reminded her of the Kriss. Her hate towards the treacherous sword had been erased, gratitude taking its place.

“It is called Renkong. I asked the spirits to imbue it with their energy.”

Ashrah nodded in approbation. She returned the new blade to its cover, inserting it on her left waist, accepting her new companion in battle.

“Stryker said the demons retreated,” she remembered.

“They did. But the spirits show that your actions caused an unforeseen chain reaction,” Nightwolf explained. “ **Shao Kahn** announced his betrayal with **D’Vorah’s head** on the tip of his spear. He now marches with his daughter **Mileena** and an army of **Outworlders**.”

 _Shao Kahn_ , she thought. That was a name that reverberated across all realms, reaching even the recondites of hell. Villainous souls trembled upon hearing the name of the Konqueror of Worlds. To become a soldier in his army was the goal of many fiends.

“Against Earthrealm? For what purpose?” Ashrah asked.

“One does not become a conqueror of realms by being reckless. He knows he is currently in no shape to deal with Kronika and Cetrion. He should be coming after Raiden to try and steal his powers. Regain his full strength.”

" **Raiden?** Is he back?"

"So **Fujin** reports. However, you were right when you denounced his use of dark magic. As we speak, my friend attempts to defend the Sky Temple against his former brother in the protection of Earthrealm."

Ashrah was confused. However, another doubt crossed her mind. “Can he do it? Can Shao Kahn steals the powers of a god?”

“Shao Kahn is known for his brute strength and magnificent ego but the truth is that few can surpass his sorcery.”

Ashrah meditated. She was thrown into a conflict and played like a puppet. The final battle was hatching and she, alone, weakened both forces... nonetheless, she testified Kronika’s immensurable power first-hand, and not even Lord Raiden could defeat her, with or without Shinnok's influence.

During Ashrah’s convocations, Kronika rambled about her _New Era._ If she was truly omnipotent, time and reality would be already altered. Instead, she was gathering strength... she was _buying time_. Time was one of the most beautiful and cruel gods, thus not even the self-proclaimed Keeper of Time had it on her full possession.

Kurtis Stryker was focused on his march, his gun prepared even though they still had a long journey ahead. Ashrah exchanged glances with Nightwolf.

_You can hear what I think, can you not?_

_Only if you allow me,_ the shaman replied telepathically.

_For how long have we been in colloquium?_

_Since you first stepped into my land._

That made sense. All the spiritual energy... too many voices were chattering in Ashrah’s head. She had faith the light of the Kriss would keep them at bay, when in fact she should have welcomed them.

 _You know this is a battle we cannot win,_ she declared.

_We do what we must. We fight until we are allowed._

Ashrah nodded. "I must head to the Sky Temple," she said for everyone to hear. "Raiden might not be our saviour but having him as enemy will not do us any good. He must be clean and ready to face Shao Kahn. I will find and then I..." She was about to make a promise when she realised it was probably a false one. Everything indicated that she would never return. That they would never meet again. Ashrah settled for a farewell and a small portion of hope, propelling herself to the skies.


	12. Bless Those Who Curse You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashrah reaches the Sky Temple just in time to save Fujin and Liu Kang from Raiden's twisted soul.

Having visited the Sky Temple in two unfortunate occasions, the path was already familiar. She followed the breeze and the tickling sensation created by the sparks of uneasy lightning. In the joyful company of the clouds, Ashrah opened her arms, no weight pulling her down. She unbuttoned half of her rob, allowing her chest to feel that vibrant freedom cry. Employing her new sword, she trimmed the long sleeves of the robe. The atmosphere seemed to shriek as it saw the scars on her arms, but Ashrah dismissed her perverse imagination. The world would see her marks. The world would see her.

As she approached the temple, a burning cloud took her off-guard, stealing the air from her lungs. Ashrah spun in the air, getting down on all fours in her landing. Raiden’s statue was broken in half, the ceiling of the temple was on fire, and the Wind God incapacitated, lying above a pool of blood - his own blood, she inferred.

“Fujin! Fujin!” she called, afraid he would not answer.

The Wind God slightly raised his head. Ashrah offered him her hand and, initially hesitant, he consented to her aid. Fujin gasped for air as he tried to stand on his feet. Ashrah gave him a quick and provisory Light healing, which comforted his heart and appeased his pains. However, if he were to survive, he would need better treatment.

“You came back,” he got out a few words. “Not good time. Raiden...”

Fujin pointed at the interior of the Sky Temple. There, the Thunder God battled against a fire-manipulating Shaolin. Liu Kang, she recognised because of her brief encounter with his corrupted form, was in terrible hardship, his fire extinguishing before the furious might of the lightning, the wrath of the Thunder God ripping out chunks of the warrior’s flesh. The passion that fuelled his resistance was admirable, compelling him to keep challenging an undying enemy.

Ashrah stepped in when Raiden’s staff was about to electrify the Shaolin's heart. It was not the same entity, she knew. As happened with Johnny Cage, a younger version of the Thunder God must have been brought to the present by the collapse of time. And that version was suffering the same dark fate as his older and doomed counterpart. Assaulted by a vision, a mirrored memory, Raiden lost interest in his craven opponent, pointing the electrified tail of his weapon towards the newcomer.

“Abomination!”

His wrath trembled the walls. Bolts of lightning illuminated the sky with a scarlet aura. Despite his harsh words, kindness was still struggling to survive in his radiant eyes. In his accusation, it was concealed a pledge for help. It was not his fault. That accursed thing in his chest tricked his thoughts. The Amulet of Shinnok needed to be contained.

“The disgraced gods sent their cub to defy me? Is that all they have left?”

A wave of electricity washed the temple. Raiden’s steps were misguided, unsure where to go.

“I fathom your pain, Lord Raiden,” Ashrah offered. “It is enormous but...”

She suffocated with images of Johnny Cage and his family. Faith leaking into blood lakes; souls reduced to sand. No! She needed to repel the Amulet’s influence or everyone would fall. The Cage family was gone, but their deaths would be avenged.

“Choking up with your own lies, demon?”

The hesitation gave Raiden the inspiration he needed. Surrounded by lightning, he flew towards the enemy, who on the last second teleported away. The Thunder God was impressed by the evasion, a profanity that enraged a new series of attacks with the staff. Working with her instincts, Ashrah dodged from a straight, a curved and an uppercut blow, punching Raiden with a sphere of Light.

A piece of the ceiling collapsed. Having the sky as his ally, Raiden summoned a storm, and no matter how fast Ashrah moved, she was ill-fated to be struck by one of the bolts.

“In the darkest night, my thunder will enlighten the truth. _I_ am the truth and _I_ am the light. I protect Earthrealm!”

The nightmares returned: the hostility of her sisters, Quan Chi flogging her for his entertainment, sleepless night on a bed ablaze by lava; Shinnok’s skeleton hands desecrating her body. The darkness was seductive, but one must look deep into its eyes. Noob Saibot’s mistake was to use the shadows in his favour without ever immersing in his own horrors. When the dark mirror reflected his image, there was nothing left to salvage. Ashrah allowed the images to come. She did not cower or banish them. Rather, she embraced their meaning and their teaching.

She adjusted her hat.

“It is a dark night, indeed. I was born in the dark. Raised by the dark. But I am not the dark. And you are not either, Lord Raiden."

Skeleton hands rose from the soil, capturing the Thunder God. His staff destroyed the claws but two more took its place. It was impossible to escape your fears, no matter how far you run. How powerful you are.

“What sort of dark magic is this?” Raiden anguished. “Shinnok is dead! I delivered his head to the emperors! You have no right...”

The undead hands stole the Amulet from Raiden. Like a symbiote who cannot survive alone, it resisted, wobbling and screeching. When its former host was out of reach, it tried to possess Ashrah. Her marks gleamed in a warning, and the object understood it had no power over her. She locked the divine instrument in a sphere of Light, away from the hands of the fools.

“What are you?” a weakened voice asked, watching with agape eyes the end of the confrontation.

“Do not push yourself, Liu Kang,” Ashrah advised. “Your mission is not over, and the war rages on.”

As she said it, Ashrah offered her hand to the defeated god, who kept his silence, hoping the world would forget about his existence. He considered staying on the floor, but his saviour’s words spoke the hard truth.

“When I discovered about Kronika's plans and about you, I was haunted by an unspeakable fear,” the Thunder God confessed. “Shinnok’s amulet would make me strong enough to win... but at a cost I am not willing to pay.”

“I know the price it demands,” Ashrah comforted the god. “It takes a valiant sprite to come back from the depths of horror. You did. And this already makes you stronger.”

Liu Kang and Fujin joined the duo. They were both in woeful shape. Fujin indicated the Jinsei Chamber, the energy that fuelled their vitality. If they had any hope to go back to the battlefield, they would need that source of energy. Raiden agreed and the Wind God showed the way to the hidden chamber.

“You could benefit from its power,” Raiden suggested.

“Perhaps,” Ashrah agreed but denied his invitation. “And it could also beget consequences beyond my control. Power is a two-edged sword.”

Raiden acquiesced. While Fujin and Liu Kang bathed in the restoring energy, the Thunder God updated Ashrah in her _grandmother’s_ plan. Kronika’s goal was to create a perfect timeline without Lord Raiden and, now, without Liu Kang, two variables she considered to doom her work’s perfection. She tried many times before, always resetting time in search of the ultimate balance. Now she had found it, and her New Era was about to start.

“Where was I during those past occurrences?” Ashrah questioned.

“In all honesty, I do not know. But I am glad you are here now, Grey Warrior. If Kronika was successful in creating multiple timelines, it means I... we were not powerful enough to stop her.”

_Grey Warrior_ , she weighed the title. She liked it. It felt good to finally meet the illustrious Lord Raiden and be a testimony to his golden spirit.

"Have you heard about Shao Kahn?"

"Indeed I have. I am afraid the last part of Kronika's scheme is about to begin. I shall not pretend I can defeat her but I can protect Earthrealm while it still exists."

Ashrah nodded. She glanced at the distant horizon, distinguishing a veil that separated that world from the world she must confront. "I shall to Kronika."

Then, Ashrah departed, leaving Raiden with his confederates.


	13. Defenders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurtis Stryker and Nightwolf head to the city to face the armies of Outworld. Their battles put them face to face with the general Shao Kahn.

They heard the **Tarkatans** before seeing them. An uneasiness sieged Kurtis Stryker’s spirit, one that had clawed at his intrepidity only once before: during his graduation at the Police Academy. A miserable comparison to his present situation, but what business has the man with the matters of the feelings?

He wondered if Nightwolf, surrounded by forces of the hereafter, felt the same. The shaman was quiet but not in that contemplative manner he was used found in. Only Kiba remained by his side, and the wolf too, always so gallant in his bravery, was muffled. Stryker did not want to dwell on such funereal thoughts but he knew many had already perished for the invasion. He was glad he could not see their severed soul.

The city's noise was silenced by the growls; savage echoes that darkened the sun, scared off birds and every other living creature free to fly away, and forebode a threat that would eat everything in its path. Stryker had the displeasure of fighting **Baraka** , the leader of the Tarkatans, in the past. He was an untamed beast of unparalleled fury and crude combat skill; a skill good enough to sustain his ferocity. If the army was anything like its general, the plagues of Egypt would look like nothing but egocentric flu.

Nightwolf drew his tomahawk and from it created a spiritual replica; Kiba opened her mouth so the enemies would see her teeth from miles away. Stryker sighed and equipped his firearm.

The beasts soon emerged in the horizon, raising blades and standards in an ear-splitting war cry. Ugly as the devil; depravity and barbarity as their most loyal companions. Stryker would never come to terms with those mouths filled with giant, sharp teeth; nor would he fathom how they could speak without lips; even though, from ten words, the officer barely recognised three.

 _No need to worry. Quite sure they haven’t come to confabulate,_ the officer tranquilised himself.

He remembered the time when he met Ashrah. His and his police forces were struggling to keep the demons at bay; to kill half a dozen was a toil. And then she arrived, a white flame of dubious hope, cutting through the fire like a vernal breeze.

Stryker touched his pocket, where the smiling doll was spared from the fearsome sight. Whatever blessing Ashrah gave him, he feared it would not help in that battle. _But it is already helping_ , he corrected his thought. _If it weren’t for that woman, you wouldn’t be here right now, getting ready to confront a walking hack-saw._

Hana cried aloft, circling the endangered air but daring not to approach the enemy lines.

“Don’t you have a dinosaur for a friend?”

“We have all we need, Kurtis,” Nightwolf replied and then started to march. A single man debouching from the safety of his spiritual mantle into the streets turned battlefield. Stryker followed him with his determination as his greatest weapon; they both speeded up and charged against the roaring foes. The stink of bloodied flesh and rotten breath hit them like a wall; and yet they persevered. Their tenacity brought a sparkle of scoffed respect to the Tarkatans’ yellow eyes but it would not be enough to stop them.

The beasts plunged. The shaman lifted his tomahawk. The police officer raised his rifle. Before the two worlds collided, an arrow made of prestigious thunder perforated through the savage army, and the smell of burning meat spiralled and mingled with the other scents, all so terrible and pernicious.

The arrow reached the last of the barbarian warriors and rose to the sky; it came down again in the shape of a demolition ball, crushing the disbanding soldiers. Threads of blood sailed from unseen wounds in the sparking corpses; the moribund and victorious chanting of the glitter clustered together and, from that demonstration of talent, a godly figure was formed.

In a cloud the Thunder God surfed; all the bright colours of the world seemed to shine in his white and light-blue robe. His voice, as if coming from the highest thrones of the sky, thundered across the ugliness of the city.

“It came to my knowledge about your aid to the goddess Ashrah,” he spoke, and for a moment Stryker thought they had gotten rid of an unstoppable foe in favour of an impossible one. As if reading his thoughts, Raiden turned to the officer. “I commend you for your kindness.”

“It’s good to have you back, Raiden,” Stryker declared.

“It is good to see that not everyone lost their faith in me. I shall not disappoint yet another token of your confidence.”

“Lord Raiden, do you know where Shao Kahn is?” Nightwolf intervened, thankful for the laurel but solicitous about the ongoing war. Having the Thunder God by their side comforted his heart but it was by no means a certainty of victory.

“I do not. However, I feel his presence. His trail is one I can follow."

“We must assume he also knows you are here. And if he did not engage in a direct attack...”

“He seeks more than merely my vitality. He seeks to conquer the whole realm. With the Elder Gods out of the equation, he should have no interference in his quest to merge Earthrealm with Outworld,” Raiden concluded, and Stryker shivered as if he had been assaulted by one of the god’s thunders.

“What’s the plan?” the officer inquired.

“I have relocated my trusted friends to this part of the realm. Our focus is no longer on Kronika and her schemes. This matter we must leave to the **Grey Goddess** , and pray she succeeds.”

 _Grey Goddess_ , Stryker repeat in his mind. It had a nice ring to it.

“It’s _kombat_ , then.” Raiden nodded and then disappeared in a beam of light. “Do you have any means to track down Shao Kahn?”

Nightwolf smiled, and Hana flew free again, leaving behind nothing but a thin mark of her spiritual march; Stryker hoped that their chances of winning were thicker than those vestiges. He remembered Shao Kahn from when he tried to subdue Earthrealm by force after his tournament went awry; Raiden’s triumph came only after he dangerously explored a loophole in the Mortal Kombat contract, thus obliging the Elder Gods to intervene in Earth’s favour. But now those same Elder Gods had been murdered and buried by their own kin. The last of the race was the traitor and the mother to their only chance at vanquishing the Keeper of Time and putting an end to a timeless war.

Still, he believed in the “Grey Goddess”. He was trained, conditioned, to follow his wits, to act accordingly to his rational and calculate every step in the road. Now, however, a stronger pulse existed inside him, and he could not, for his best efforts, ignore the messages of his heart. To believe that much in someone; to put his faith into an unknown entity and, above all, to trust they could win... for the brain, it was nonsense. But the heart conceived the greatest and most delightful of impossibilities; in that scenario, that extraordinary feeling could be exactly what would save them from damnation.

The duo followed Hana’s guidance. But while the eagle could refresh herself in the zephyr, the two warriors had obstacles to deal with. Tarkatans flooded the streets, killing and eating, but they also found companies of Outworld warriors who, judging by their distinguished language, armour and appearance, had come from different merged realms to please the tyrant.

Stryker shot, electrocuted, snapped necks and broke limbs; Nightwolf pierced heads and hearts with arrows, sliced bellies and splat skulls with his tomahawks, and commanded hordes of spiritual animals.

A wave of optimism flushed through the officer’s veins. The devils did not seem invincible, after all. Indeed, taking them down was proving to be a rather simple task. Fortunately, he never uttered those words; for those minions were just a small part of the army’s strength; sacrificial fiends that held no importance to the _real_ enemy. When Stryker put his eyes on the Konqueror, he froze.

There was Shao Kahn, impaling a series of local police officers as if their skin were paper. Bullets ricocheted on his armour and dragon-skin. The scales on his arms and legs were horrifying, gross. He howled in amusement at any sign of resistance. The efforts to contain his progress were nothing but entertainment. D'Vorah's disembodied head hanged on his belt, braying that the colossal warrior was not one who respected notions of honour and probity.

"What is this creature?"

"The last of his species," Nightwolf said. "And one that is not willing to come into extinction."

His daughter Mileena, laughing as loud as her father, was put in charge of a high-rank battalion of Tarkatans. She tore heads apart with disgusting easiness and tranquillity of mind; her feeding upon the carcass was not a vision Stryker could watch idly. Nightwolf put a hand on his chest, preventing his suicide. Mileena teleported behind an officer, piercing through his neck with one of her Sai. Then, she ordered her carnivorous warriors to follow her, and they set off to propagate chaos in another borough.

A few Tarkatans were left with Shao Kahn; the first of them died quickly with an arrow to the eye. The Konqueror watched as the two Earthrealmers approached, a grin showing up below his horned helmet. His minions attacked, and the master, resting his hammer, watched with patience and pleasure as his soldiers were destroyed by the shaman and the officer. Before the real battle started, Stryker was already covered in blood, a vision that sickened him but amused the enemy.

“I heard a great deal about you,” Shao Kahn said, pointing a spiked finger to Kurtis Stryker. “When I realised, for my great shock and merriment, that the Great Titan Kronika was afraid of a _cop_ from Earthrealm, I could not contain myself,” he looked at D’Vorah’s head, her countenance sculpted in consternation. “You have my attention but not my curiosity. Where is the splendid creature, the emissary forged in the hot springs of Heaven and raised in the dark pits of Netherrealm?”

Tired of all his egotistic talk, Stryker charged against an enemy two times his size, infinitely times his power. He clasped his fingers around the baton and raised his arms for a deadly attack on the foe’s neck... a single smack pushed him aside like a worthless fly.

All his body ached. The blow hit his cheek but his chest was crushed, the legs paralysed. _Is this the invader we are supposed to stop?_ He glared at the clouds, hoping to see a god coming down to save them once more. The sun shone in red, painting the skies; no one answered his call for help. Kurtis Stryker gathered incredible strength to convince his body to stand up. _If that’s our mission, then we stick to it._

Shao Kahn would offer no compliment, but seeing his opponent raising to the impossible fight unsettled him.

“Let us see if Kronika had reason in fearing you,” as he said it, he threw his spear. Stryker dodged the projectile and sent back a few bullets; on the other side, Nightwolf shot three arrows, each of them hitting a different region of the Konqueror’s stomach.

Gaining the foe’s attention, the shaman attacked with his dual tomahawks. Shao Kahn shielded the advances with his hammer and his own muscles. He had little space to use his weapon, but his arms were just as vigorous. Allowing for Nightwolf to strike a blow in his chest, Shao Kahn seized the opponent’s head and squashed it into the asphalt.

Stryker fried Shao Kahn’s ankle with the taser. He was a lot smaller than the enemy, and used his diminutive size to his advantage, sliding, ducking and evading the counter-attacks, obliging the Konqueror to dance in his rhythm while he banged his legs and torso with the baton. The consecutive hits incensed the Outworld general, who slammed his hammer against the floor, creating a shockwave that dispatched the officer.

Nightwolf attempted a new attack, but he was repelled by a kick to the guts.

Seeing the back of his opponents on the ground, Shao Kahn inhaled and exhaled the perfume of victory, his stalwart figure appearing even bigger when crowded by the crimson sun. He sat on the remains of a car and offered other seats for the fallen fighters. Who would guess Emperor Shao Kahn could present himself as a true gentleman?

“Raiden could be useful now,” Stryker said to Nightwolf, unaware of how loud his disbelief echoed.

“Raiden is currently following false traces. By the time he finds me, he will be too tired, angry and confounded; too easy to defeat,” Shao Kahn explained, proud of his wit. “A shame; for millenniums I longed for this piece of land. Time and time again, it bred satisfactory warriors. Who would guess that the purest gem of power would live among fire and despair? Quan Chi was always a fool. Now, do tell me what you know about this... Ashrah.”

“Raiden is just the beginning,” Stryker realised. “His powers, Earthrealm destruction; it’s all means to get to her.”

“If you have not proven so smart and, above all, so _pestilent_ , I would gift you a place in my army.”

Stryker snorted. Shao Kahn, not accustomed to not having people bowing to his mighty, lifted the officer with the strength of only two fingers.

“You laugh at me, Earthrealmer? I will enjoy torturing you, cop. It will be far more pleasant than seeing Raiden’s eyes losing its glow.”

“You talk too much,” Stryker retorted, shoving a grenade down the Konqueror’s throat. The impact of such unthinkable insubordination staggered the brute; he released the officer, who ran to take cover alongside Nightwolf.

The detonation came seconds later. Stryker stuck his head out of hiding, eager to learn the result of his act. The smoke of the explosion lasted for ages; he was starting to believe it had worked and, when the fog lowered, they would find a dismembered Konqueror. However, before the mist was blown away by the wind, a titanic silhouette emerged.

Shao Kahn materialised on the same spot they first found him. Blood dripped from a tiny scar on the edge of his lips. He laughed.

“How in Heaven do we kill this thing?”

“We do not,” Nightwolf answered, reading his tomahawks and invoking all the spiritual animals he had at his side. Shao Kahn equipped his hammer, his spear and the magic he had available. Stryker sighed.

“ **It’s final round** , then,” he reloaded his gun.


	14. Vice and Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the final round: Ashrah confronts the Keeper of Time.

If that was to be her last time seeing the world, Ashrah would enjoy it. “There’s no time! Time is running out!” A part of her shouted. Time was such a fascinating and strange element. One could count it in the petals of a flower, in the colours of the sky, in grains of sand. But, despite its universal presence, its manoeuvres that gave life its rhythm, no one could control time. Not even its Keeper.

Kronika was calling to her, waiting for her. She could almost hear the sarcastic humour disguised by a soothing voice.

Ashrah wafted above the ocean, guided by its brisk breeze. Waves of mud blackened the pellucid water. The pure air was made putrid by the scent of decay. She soared over the crimson waters of the **Sea of Blood**. Of all the horrible tales told at Netherrealm, the ones about that bottomless and unforgiving sea were among the favourites. The heralds of doom believed that the end of the world would happen when the Sea of Blood had fed on enough souls and a great flood submerged all the realms, devouring mortals, gods and Titans alike. Seeing the ominous ocean for the first time, Ashrah could understand the panic it evoked. However, the Netherrealm dramatists would be far more terrorised if they knew what lies beyond the Sea of Blood. Beyond the boundaries of time and space.

The atmosphere vibrated. That tiny realm, separated from all the others, was supported by ancient energy found in only one being in all existence: _Kronika. Grandmother._

Ashrah landed on the shore that glittered as if encrusted with diamonds. She tried to move and found it difficult to raise her foot. The power there was smashing, crippling. _I am her grandchild_ , she remembered herself. _Heir to Time, Life and Death_. _Every virtue, every sin that runs in her blood also runs in mine._

Clinging to that faith, her movements became lighter and more gracious. She used her mind to open the door to the Keep. As soon as she crossed to the interior, the door closed with a bang.

The floor and the walls were all made of glass. All the structure looked delicate as a new-born flower; she measured each step before taking it, afraid the building would shatter. Ashrah soon realised the mistake and returned to her normal rhythm. She could see her reflection everywhere she looked. It was a beautiful place, she could not deny. After a few minutes of walk, her image stopped appearing, for other and more important depictions illustrated the walls.

Made of stained glass, figures and patterns told stories of forgotten and modern times. As Ashrah strolled across the unending corridor, the scroll of time uncurled before her. She witnessed the inception of the universe and its first children; the destruction of the all-powerful being whose shards created all the realms; the Titans and the Elder Gods ruling the new universe; the sparkle of life proliferating in so many different soils and skies; and amidst the chaotic history, she beheld her own birth.

Sin and Morality. Lust and Chastity. Mischief and Obedience. **Vice and Virtue**. An act consumed in love and hate. The amalgamation of everything corrupt and everything pure resulted in the epigenesis of an unsanctified angel; a sanctimonious demon.

Ashrah’s feet dragged her through the rest of the world’s tales, although her consciousness grasped nothing from the glassy book. The architecture of the place was asymmetric, arched stairs meeting ovate chambers and wavy corridors. It was a labyrinth without an entrance or an exit, a purgatory for the condemned to wander for eternity.

That seemed a fair destiny, but Ashrah happened to know where she was going. A part of her did, at least. Going down an elliptical stair, she encountered the **Hourglass** , the ancient artefact that made more or less possible the control of the rebellious flow of time. Floating around it, its self-proclaimed Keeper waved her hands, watching and changing events, a crown of greenish aura feeding her more power.

“How did you like the world?” Kronika asked, her voice filling all the enormous room. “Ready to pacify it, I assume?”

“It was many flaws, indeed. Corruption spreads across the realms, fordoing nature and vilifying the most generous of souls.”

“The very demon against whom you dedicated your whole life to eradicate.” Kronika stretched her hand. “Come and help me finish the job. We can win the war against evil.”

Ashrah sighed. “All my life, I tried to win. First, as a demon. Then, as a demon hunter. I was always trying to extinguish a part of me I deemed despicable and wicked. Until I realised... I could never win, for life must be a struggle.”

Kronika was thrown back with the answer. When she recovered, she opened an even bigger and brighter smile.

“You surprise me, Ashrah. You understand me like no other of my servants. I shall be honest: my plan was to dispatch you. But I see that the New Era can hold a place for you as well. We are virtuous, my child.”

Ashrah smiled. Then she unsheathed Nightwolf’s gift. It was time for the Renkong to taste its first blood. Not in hunt but in noble combat.

“When misapplied, virtue turns vice. And vice, seen under the wrong lens, is dignified.”

Kronika’s face twisted in ire. Ashrah advanced towards her opponent, letting the scabbard tinkle on the crystallised battlefield. The blade was ready but not anxious. It was not thirsty for blood but it knew its duty.

A stonewall intercepted her path. Ashrah anticipated the intrusiveness. She did not want to believe but her heart was alerting her of the hidden threat. Perhaps, the reason why she chose to ignore the warnings was because of its weakling nature. The rocks that built the wall where shaking, and she destroyed it with a single tap.

A dim aureole descended from the ceiling. Cetrion stood between her mother and her daughter. The beauty of her visage had been drained by the vampiric temperament of the contend within her pacific integrity. A red tumour had robbed her of the emerald mantle that used to hang on her lofty shoulders.

“You saved me once. Let me retribute,” Ashrah said.

She attempted an approach, but Cetrion was besieged by bushes of roses with bulky spikes. “Stop right now,” her order was a supplication.

“And allow the world to be manipulated to please one’s will? Alas, I cannot do that.”

“I cannot sit back and watch. As much as it pains me, I must intervene,” Cetrion kept talking, and Ashrah kept advancing. “The universe demands true balance, one that prevails beyond the curtain of time.” The air around the goddess grew thicker and a boulder assembled in her palm. Ashrah stopped. Not out of fear of the menacing stone but because she realised that, although Cetrion looked at her, her words were assigned to another person. She simpered and then heaved the rock at her mother.

Kronika caught the boulder a few millimetres before it stomped her face. A blue, ancestral energy disfigured the rock, diminishing it until it was just a feeble pebble.

“This would have broken my heart, should the Hourglass have not already told me about the weeds of perfidy growing in you.”

Kronika faked her feelings but they were real in Cetrion. She must have guessed the surprise attack would not shock her mother, but a part of her nourished the hope to end the battle before it could start. With that hope deceased, she looked miserable.

In retribution, Kronika fired a sphere of energy against the goddess. Cetrion stood in her position, still as a statue, waiting for her punishment. Ashrah teleported between the goddess and the incoming missile, destroying it with a slash of her sword. She felt on her knees. Her arms trembled, her teeth ground, ten times worse than they had when she first landed on the secluded island.

Kronika studied the new weapon, which glowed in light-blue. “I should have imprisoned them both as well. A small but troubling diversion.”

Ashrah controlled her trembling. The timeless energy blended with her blood. She recognised it but could not comprehend it. While her body shook, her faith did not. Ashrah jumped to her feet, casting balls of Light and whips of Dark against the Keeper of Time. Kronika dodged or blocked them all, although with greater effort than she needed to get rid of the boulder.

From time to time, Cetrion assisted her daughter, but like a petulant insect, her attacks were banished with a hand wave. Then she stood aside and conjured a beam of light. Instead of trying to burn Kronika, she commanded the sunny energy to fortify Ashrah’s stamina. The Grey Warrior sliced, punched, fell. She stood up again, igniting herself in Light, dashed in waves of Darkness. She tried everything until Kronika knocked her down and, declaring herself victorious, returned to her work in the Hourglass.

“For a time, I worried you would fumble in the Dark and lose yourself. I staged a paradise for you, taught you all I could about your Light heritage, and prayed with all my fibre,” Cetrion said. She crawled near Ashrah, holding her bleeding hand. “I prayed to myself,” she chuckled. “without realising it was I who was lost. Do not fear the Dark, lest it haunts you. Respect the Light, lest it blinds you. I trust you, my dear, beloved child.”

Cetrion clasped her daughter’s hand with both of hers and thrust the Renkong into her bosom. Ashrah tried to get away but the goddess held her firmly while the transfusion happened. The Grey Warrior gasped as the heavenly energy reached, diffused and settled at its new home. It was a gentle and comforting sensation despite the immense power that her body received. Cetrion’s hands shrivelled and dried, and she departed as beautifully and quietly as the last autumn leaf. Her life, her love, would go on, inherited by her daughter.

“How emotional,” Kronika mocked. The Keep howled as if it were a giant monster. The walls cracked and exploded in billions of fragments, each one telling the story of an age. One by one they melted and disappeared. Only the Hourglass, a parcel made of crystals and the two entities remained. “But useless. Time is reset. The New Era can no longer be prevented. Soon enough, my _beloved_ child, you shall dissolve into dust, and from your ashes, a new, balanced universe, shall be born.”

Ashrah stared at her hands. On her right palm, a bright, candid Light erupted. On the left, an obscure comet float maliciously. She joined her hands. As lovers connected by the strings of their hearts who finally meet, as fate that ultimately arrives at its destination, as a perfectly balanced scale, the two ethereal elements became one.

The Grey Goddess turned to her opponent. The laugh of triumph chocked in her throat. Her face looked old and exhausted.

“Your life. Your name. They will be wiped from history. Come, granddaughter, it is time to die.”

Kronika wasted no time. Constructs of energy assaulted Ashrah, who danced in the middle of chaos, avoiding all of them. She jolted her arm, and as she did, a grey spear lunged like a wolf, biting Kronika in her shoulder. The blade dug her flesh and stayed there, a timid golden blood seeping from the wound. A distressed countenance analysed the cut, and with a grimace, she ablated the spear.

The battlefield was a dark, cosmic place. It occurred to Ashrah that nowhere in Netherrealm could depict such a sight; nor in Earthrealm. The strand that held the realms together had been severed; the cloth of time that shrouded them was shredded into pieces. The fast, unstoppable exchange of projectiles were the only thing that illuminated that microscopic universe at the edge of time. But grey and dark-blue are not potent torches, so the battle was governed not by sight but by instinct.

Cold steel bashed her skin. At every stroke of the Renkong, the air gained a mortifying scent. Kronika’s mind tried to paralyse her in a vacuum of time and when Ashrah freed herself, a screech propagated across the universe, silenced in the next second. In one instant they were flying, exchanging punches and kicks enveloped in raw energy; on the next, they were rolling on the floor. Ashrah’s heart beat faster; then it ramped down, almost stopping. A horde of archers rose behind her, firing a wall of arrows. She lost the Renkong and fought with her bare hands. 

Until, after countless years, she did not need to fight anymore. Ashrah pierced something with a grey whip, and the flogged party did not return the injury. Her hand illuminated the universe: Kronika was on her knees; her white skin painted by her luxurious yellow blood, which flowed aimlessly from dozens of wounds across her celestial being. Pain, disbelief, bewilderment, all was meddled in her face. She did not know what to feel, all she knew is that she had lost and she did not know how or why. Her discoloured eyes glanced at the unattainable sky, accusing her own universe of betraying her.

She turned to her heir. Kronika could not speak. Somewhere during the battle, her tongue had been lost.

“Thank you,” Ashrah spoke for her, touching her hollowed cheeks with affection. Light and Dark penetrated the Keeper’s skull. She convulsed for a moment; then she lay still, peaceful. Ashrah took the crown from the corpse's head, admiring the shimmering artefact before placing it on her right waist.

Behind her, someone coughed as if he were a fish who had been abandoned out of the water. When the coughing stopped, he looked around in awe.

“Ashrah?” With his calling, she turned to him. “What happened? What is this? Last thing I remember, Shao Kahn’s hammer was about to smash my brains. Nightwolf... shit, he was dead. What _is_ this?”

She couldn’t stop a smile. “Always asking too many questions, Kurtis Stryker.”

“Sorry, I...”

“No, it is good. It is good. I believe you have opened my gift. I was not sure it would work but, seeing you here, I assume it did.” Stryker made a puzzled face. He searched his pocket, taking out a doll reduced to a mass of lint and broken limbs.

"Sorry."

“It accomplished its task, allowing you to open a rift and, for a moment, stand out of the river of time. It brought you to where your heart desired."

Stryker sat on a crystal couch. "I remember thinking if our sacrifice would be any good. So all that actually happened. And this _is_ happening. Will I die when I go back?”

“In a way, you are already dead.” Despite the grim news, her smile was somehow comforting.

Stryker looked around once more. He found the Hourglass. It had not lost any portion of its glow after its owner passed away.

“You did it, then? You defeated Kronika?”

“In a way,” Ashrah sighed. “Kronika was not wrong, you know. The world needs darkness as well as light. But in her obsessive pursuit of balance, she became the very instrument of unbalance. The _New Era_ must occur, but not like she envisioned it. In this balanced universe, creatures of every origin must be free. Unchecked by a supreme entity. No more Titans.”

Stryker considered the idea for an instant. “If there will be no more Titans, then there will be no more Cetrion or Shinnok. There will be no more you.”

“If that must be my destiny, then I shall embrace it. But time is smarter than any of us; when it wants, it finds a way. Thus, I shall not consider this a goodbye but merely... a farewell.”

With that, Ashrah stretched her hand. Stryker considered the greeting but did not accept it. Instead, he opened his arms and sheltered her in an embrace. The Grey Goddess, once a foreigner in Earthrealm, had seen that gesture but she could not imagine its power. Even there, at the end of time, she kept learning. Oh, how she wished to continue that ignorant existence that always finds something new to delight on! For the moment, however, there was only one thing she could say.

“Thank you, my friend.”

“I will use my last breath to pray we meet again in better circumstances.”

“I would very much enjoy it. But pray not only for me. This universe, much like myself, is only a child and, from now on, the only guidance it will have is its own consciousness.”

He acquiesced. The distance between the impavid officer and the children of gods grew bigger. With a last curtsey, Ashrah turned her back to Kurtis Stryker. She did not see or hear when he left, returning to his fate in Earthrealm, for she now focused all her power, all her wisdom and all her love on the Hourglass.

It was time to give birth to the **New Era**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end! I appreciate everyone who took the time to read this and I hope you had at least a bit of fun with the story!


End file.
